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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

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BY 



GRACE DUFFIE BOYLAN. 




mew l^orft. 
£. H. Hecttch £ Company 

70 3Piftb Bvenue. 









LODb 



Copyright, 1898, 
By E. R. Herrick & Co. 



WEED-PARSONS PRINTING COMPANY, 

PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, 

ALBANY, N. Y. 






TO MY MOTHER. 



CONTENTS* 



PAGE. 

If Tam O'Shanter »d had a Wheel 13 

The Cuban Amazon . 14 

A New Woman 19 

A Miracle of Fishes 20 

Jim and John 25 

Auf Wiedersehen 28 

The Passing of Officedogski, 29 

If it is True 34 

Consider the Lilies 36 

Even in Far Japan 41 

The Old Bugler 43 

Hoots ! Bobby Burns ! 48 

Romance in the Irish Village SO 

Songs at Sea 56 

At the Refuge of Saint Sophia 59 

To My Old Wheel 66 

"W'yAin' Yo'?" 68 

The Belle of the Block 69 

Old Settlers 75 



8 CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 



Vines of Memory 78 

Sundown 81 

When Papa was a Little Boy 83 

Mother's Birthday 85 

A Son of Italy 86 

The Old Man Rides a Wheel 90 

When the Moon Was Bad 94 

Terry's Repentance 95 

Mr. Brown 101 

Sunrise on Mount Shasta . . . 103 

The Shadow of the Cross 104 

Old " 97. " 106 

The Dour Night Ill 

When Christmas Comes 113 

When the Band Played 115 

Old Folks Hear the City Choir 120 

The Prison Gardener 123 

To-Morrow 129 

At Even Time 130 

Ishmael, The Exile 131 



CONTENTS. 9 

PAGE. 

Tempest , . 139 

A Weather Prophet 140 

White Organdy 141 

When Polly Says Good-Bye 144 

A Baggage Reading 146 

Joe 150 

An Every-Day Story 153 

Hafiz Pasha 158 

The Yankee Marine 161 

The Jedge o' Folks 163 

Night 165 

From the Mine 166 

The Quest of Gudrun 168 

Sonnet 175 

The Legend of the Moss Rose 176 

Heimgang 181 

Autumn 182 

Eph' rum's Matrimonial Surprises 183 

Lullaby 188 

Kelsey 189 



10 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Husking Bee 195 

Katie's Light Housekeeping 198 

Milkman Jim , 201 

Keepin' Cump'ny 203 

How Bud Brought in the Copy 206 

'Twill be all Right 213 

Chiquita, , 214 

The Old House 221 



IF TAM CSHANTER T> HAD A WHEEL, 
J* 

If Tarn O'Shanter 'd had a wheel 

The witches might hae sought him 

Fra bosky glen to rinnin' burn 
But ne'er, ne'er caught him. 

But I — by far a soberer man — 

While speedin' down the highway, 

Took fright at a wee canny thing 
Wha whirled fra oot the byway. 

Fu' plain she bore th' witches' sign: 
Cleft chin a-set wi' laughter; 

An' Tarn's ain bonnet on her head 
Made my puir brain th' dafter. 

Sae fast she sped alang th' way 

I felt that she was winnin'. 
•'I'm caught," I cried, but on she went 

An' would na stop her rinnin'. 

"I yield the race!" I cried, but she 

Looked round *ra o'er her plaiddie 

Wi' blue eyes wide an' coolly said: 
"Wha's racin' wi you, laddie?" 
13 



THE CUBAN AMAZON. 

Inez Cari, the black leader of the Cuban Amazons, 
(Feared the most of the insurgents by the haughty Span- 
ish dons), 
Met the troops at Olayita but a week or so gone by, 
Saw the fierce, unequal battle ere the rebels turned to fly, 
Then, with all the splendid courage of a soul born to be 

free, 
Turned her bosom for the bullets of the Spanish mus- 
ketry. 

She had waited with her women in the rude and hostile 

camp, 
Watching through the quiet bivouac, bearing burdens on 

the tramp. 
Not for her a downy pillow sheltered from the war's 

alarms; 
Not for her the twilight crooning 
as she held her babe in arms. 
But in that last glorious rally, un- 
derneath the smoke-filled sky, 
Inez Cari showed her country how 
a patriot can die ! 




THE CUBAN AMAZON. 1 5 

Thus it was: The cruel Weyler sent his troops to settle 

down 
Like a swarm of yellow jackets on the hills about the 

town 
Where the malcontents were hiding; telling them with 

covert sneer 
That the Amazons were holding all the countryside in fear, 
And his own most doughty soldiers, when they ventured 

an attack 
On the gaunt, half-naked rebels, had been fiercely driven 

back. 

"Shoot them down," he said, "or bring them back as cap- 
tives to the town, 

For to tame the fighting furies should be something for 
renown." 

With a laugh the men saluted, and swept down upon the 
field, 

Held by half a thousand women, who would die but 
never yield; 

Half a thousand negro women, who would never wear 
again 

On their bent and bleeding shoulders the degrading yoke 
of Spain. 



1 6 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

Inez Cari called her women, and then, like a vet'ran true, 
Gave commands as clear and steady as if 'twere but for 

review. 
"Come," she said, "a round of bullets wait within each 

rifle's throat; 
Send them singing to the Spaniards, touch a heart with 

ev'ry note. 
Look, they come! Now, Viva Cuba!" And with that 

defiant cry 
Stood they waiting in grim patience as the regiment drew 

nigh. 

Silent, till they saw white eyeballs; then their muskets 

leaped in place, 
And their eyes gleamed 'long the barrels straight to 

Spanish heart or face. 
Ping ! Death's messengers went singing. But the soldiers 

answered well, 
And for ev'ry trooper stricken down a score of women 

fell; 
Till the Spanish closed around them, pouring fast a storm 

of lead, 
And. alone, brave Inez Cari stood at bay among her 

dead. 



THE CUBAN AMAZON. 



17 




"Viva Cuba ! Cuba libre !" cried she, smiling in their 

eyes, 
Answering with well-aimed bullets all their fierce and 

mocking cries. 
Straight and tall as a young cypress, with her naked 

bosom dyed 
With the crimson blood fast welling into fuller, richer 

tide; 
Dark the heavens grew above her, but she leaned against 

a tree 
And sent home another bullet in the cause of Cuba free. 



1 8 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

Faint the Spanish cries. Caramba! what a jagged, gaping 

wound ! 
Inez Cari, turning, staggered, and sank down upon the 

ground. 
"Dead, El Capitan!" A soldier ran and bent above her 

head, 
But she raised upon her elbow, where she lay, and shot 

him dead. 
"Viva Cuba ! Cuba libre !" cried she with her dying 

breath, 
And the guns of Spain won silence only with the aid of 

Death. 

Thus won Inez Cari glory but a week or so ago, 

On the field of Olayita, where she met the Spanish foe, 

And from 'neath the blessed banner of this blood-bought 

land I raise 
My one harp to strike the measures for a stirring song 

of praise. 
"Viva Cuba! Cuba libre!" Could I lift the cry again, 
-.Joined by sixty million voices, it would not be raised in 

vain. 




A NEW WOMAN. 

A new woman lives just over the way; 

But her hands are as soft as the tinted snow 
That falls from the apple trees in May, 

And her lips are as sweet, I know, 

You'd be surprised; but on suffrage laws 
She has no views, and she doesn't speak; 

And even the Bible's flagrant flaws 
She can stand for another week. 

Yet, 'tis said, at a wave of her little hand 
Her subjects bow with an homage true ; 

And there isn't a right in all the land 
That isn't her guerdon due. 

For down a pathway of woven light, 
That leads to this world from the 
jeweled skies, 
She came last eve, with her brow 
all bright 
With the dews of Paradise. 




19 



A MIRACLE OF FISHES. 

Far out toward the end of the long pier that 
stretches into the deeper blue waters of the lake, a 
group of young folks stopped and began their noisy 
preparations for fishing. They were Chicago society 
people, out for a new experience, and as they unstrapped 
their bamboo poles, jointed, silver-mounted, and fitted 
with the scarlet-feathered flies and shining " angel 
wings," considered necessary for the success of the 
fashionable angler, they sang little snatches from the 
latest operas, and talked of the Wednesday coach- 
ing parties on the ''Blue Dog" from the Saddle and 
Cycle clubhouse to Lake Forest, and the dinner-dance 
after golf at the Onwentsia club. 

An old man sat near them on the edge of the strong, 
rude platform, quiet and respectable looking in spite of 
his patched and faded clothes. One of the young fel- 
lows went towards him — unconscious of egotism, and 
without a thought of impudence — and was going to say : 

"Hey, there, my good man, just move on a little," 

20 



A MIRACLE OF FISHES. 21 

But a girl's slim hand was on his arm, and a girl's 
lips, lately given to speaking with authority to him — 
asked quickly : 

"Do you want the water as well as the earth, 
Harry? Leave him alone." 

The men of the party were in white duck suits, 
with gay ribbon hat bands, and the girls were as daintily 
gowned as the summer maids of fiction. Not a shirt 
waist, or other symbol of the utilitarian, or business 
class, but whole costumes in harmony, from fluffy heads 
to perfect boots, and in the most appropriate simplicity. 

The flexible rods were tried and the lines whirled 
over the waters. The fishers were all amateurs, the 
women especially being novices in that particular kind 
of angling ; but almost as fast as the lines were thrown 
big, finny beauties were drawn up and hung with their 
gasping companions on the string, to be exhibited later 
as the victorious banners of the day to envious stay- 
at-homes. 

The old man was not so fortunate. Quietly and 
patiently he sat there, throwing the line one way and 
another, but not one fish of edible size or tribe took the 



22 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

hook. He was not fishing for the pleasure of it. A 
shady seat under some wide and blossoming tree where 
the breeze from across the clover fields might stir the 
thin, white hair on his forehead, would have been more 
to his notion; but a nice fish rolled in cornmeal and 
fried crisp and brown would be a great treat for supper 
after the weeks they had been without such food, and 
he would try a little longer. Indeed (the thought 
rushed upon him with cruel intensity), he must have 
something to carry home with him or they would all go 
hungry to bed. 

A shriek of delight from a girlish voice announced 
another prize. 

" Ooh, isn't that a big one? " 

" Five pounds, if it's an ounce," began deeper 
tones, argumentatively. 

"Just call it two, that's big enough. The five- 
pound one got away." 

" Dick, you bait my hook — just this time — these 
things squirm so ! " 

The old man looked up and sighed deeply, mechan- 
ically selecting another place for the hook to fall. And 



A MIRACLE OF FISHES. 23 

just then a young girl, standing laughing among the rest, 
caught his look, and, with quick intuition, read the 
whole story in his sad and weary eyes. She moved 
swiftly over to where he sat and bent above him her 
friendly, rosy face. 

"We're making so much noise I'm afraid we're 
frightening the fish away," she said. "The last one I 
caught bit off the hook and has gone home to his family 
with dyspepsia. But they say I am a fish-witch, and if 
you will let me take your rod I'll try and coax them 
over here." 

He handed her the heavy pole very courteously, and 
watched her as she held it in her strong, young hands. 
She lifted it lightly, and the line dropped into the lake, 
ten limped blue feet away. The rod bobbed a little, 
and the girl threw a knowing smile over her shoulder ; 
a minute more, and a large perch — the biggest catch of 
the day — was in the splint basket at the old man's feet. 
Another and another, until he laid a restraining hand on 
the rod so recently touched with magic. 

" I thank you, young lady," he said with a bow, in 
which humility and pride were strangely mingled. And 



24 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

he walked hastily along the pier shoreward, carrying 
the well-filled basket on his arm. 

"What's happened, Carrie, another miracle of 
fishes?" called one of the group, lazily. 

The girl looked away out over the waters, a serious 
look on her pretty face ; and there was a little quiver 
in her cheery voice as she answered : 

"Yes." 



^> 




JIM AND JOHN. 
j> 

They were schoolmates, Jim and John, 

But Jim never did get on. 

Wasn't lazy, fur's I know, 

But jes' took things kinder slow. 

An' good-natured — well I guess! 

Though he could get riled at less 

Than 'ud make most fellers mad — 
Not to call his temper bad. 
'Twas that flashin' in the pan 
Nat'ral to an Irishman. 
For the rest, a kinder heart 
Never took a brother's part. 

John is diff'rent; alius was. 
He would never stop because 
Others might stand in his way — 
Whether it was work or play. 
Fact, when all is said and done, 
He's looked out for number one. 

Still, I'll give his due to him; 
He was piouser than Jim. 
*5 



26 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

The one boy that kep' the rule 
'Way back in that old, red school; 
Ne'er played hooky, never tried 
Cheatin' in his sums, or lied. 

Jim 'ud work an afternoon 
Helpin' some poor little coon; 
Miss a day of jolly fun 
Splittin' wood for Widow Dunn. 
But he'd cuss, like all possessed, 
At a boy who'd rob a nest. 

Wasn't, as I must allow, 
Saint or angel then. But now. 
Though a dingy, ragged vest 
Hangs upon his honest breast, 
It is not to hide, I know, 
Wrong to woman, child, or foe. 

P'raps he don't amount to much 
In society, an' such. 
P'raps folks ain't inclined to raise 
Him before their kids fur praise; 
But I know him, and I say 
Better men don't pass this way. 




JIM AND JOHN. 27 

John, upon the other hand, 

Is a model for the land. 

Deacon in the church, with all 

Of the honors that befall 

Them that's lucky in their life — 

Place, 'an wealth, 'an child, 'an wife. 

But for all that, I am sure, 
His own soul is mean and poor. 
No poor brother ever felt 
Comfort from his hand, or help. 
No sad tears by him are dried 
If his purse must be untied. 

So I'd like to take a look 

Into that big record book 

That the angels keep above; 

Find the place where deeds of love 

Are set down, and read within 

The true estimate of Jim! 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 
J> 

Say not "good-bye" — the sounds have all regret; 

I cannot loose your hand with such a word. 
Our ways part here, and yet, Love, and yet, 

I cannot leave you till my soul has heard 
The charm to bring me to your side again, 

The dear "auf wiedersehen." 

Say not "adieu" — the word has hidden pain, 
Within its foreign accents sweet and clear, 

That haunts my heart with sad and hopeless strain, 
And pleads v/ith duty just to linger here. 

Smile courage in mine eyes, Love, and then. 
Whisper "auf wiedersehen." 

Say not "farewell" — if thou wouldst have it so; 

The word, like a wan hand, waves us apart. 
I cannot leave, mein liebling, will not go, 

Until you whisper, lying on my heart, 
The golden bridge between the Now and Then, 

The sweet "auf wiedersehen." 



23 



THE PASSING OF OFFICEDOGSKX 

& 

" The night was deep," as the writers say, and may- 
be that was the reason that Ofncedogski could not get 
out of it. Or may be the bells ringing out from the high 
towers holding up the sky made him forget the way. 
At any rate he suddenly felt his feet slip from the cold, 
snowy walk, and in a minute found himself in a large 
underground room where it was light and warm, and the 
air seemed filled with the whirl and crash of ponderous 
wheels and mighty iron arms. 

Over in a corner, hugging the tattered folds of his 
coat, a newsboy lay on a pile of mail sacks fast asleep. 
He turned uneasily in his slumber, and as he lifted his 
face with the hungry, homeless look upon it up to the 
light, Officedogski went very softly over to where he 
lay and gazed upon him with the sympathy that only 
companions in misery can feel, and gently kissed him 
on his cheek and brow. 

Of course we were not expecting him. But then, 
anything may happen on Christmas eve. We were 
proof readers on a morning paper, and when at a mys- 

29 



30 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

terious hour we heard a rat-a-tap at our office door we 
thought neither of the wind or the raven, but supposed 
quite naturally it was the grimy-faced galley boy with 
another bundle of proofs, and called " Come in ! " But 
when the handle of the door did not turn, and the rap- 
ping was repeated with a plaintive, pleading accompani- 
ment, Isadore lifted her brown eyes in pleased surprise 
and went swiftly to open the door. 

"Well," she ejaculated. And with a delighted 
bark the new comer agreed with her ; for he was a small 
dog of black and yellow with gray anarchistic whiskers 
and fierce bristling eyebrows. Isadore leaned down and 
patted his rough head with her pretty white hand. 
" Poor little wanderer," she said, " What is your country 
and your name?" 

"He is a Russian, I am sure," I said, looking at 
him, " let us call him ' Officedogski.' " 

The gray rat under Isadore's desk squeaked con- 
temptuously as we lifted the newcomer up to a place of 
honor and from a rusty tin cup drank to his health and 
prosperity. He had been with us for years ; he had 
eaten our paste and chewed the edges of our copy regu- 



THE PASSING OF OFFICEDOGSKI. 3 1 

larly during that time and yet we had never made a fuss 
over him. " Ingrates," he thought. 

Officedogski took up his place quite naturally among 
us and soon adapted himself to the customs of the pro- 
fession. At first he snapped at the long brown cock- 
roaches when he saw them looking over the copy, but 
gradually he began to recognize them as regular members 
of the craft, and eyed them with a sort of good-natured 
tolerance not unmixed with approval. He seemed happy 
and contented, as a general thing, and we regarded him 
as a comrade and protector. But at times at the sound 
of a voice from the office below he would start away 
with a sharp, quick bark of joy only to return to us 
disappointed and unhappy. He seemed always looking 
for some one, and the memory of his lost friend was at 
all times wakeful in his loyal little heart, although he 
never failed in his devotion to us. 

We lived in a river town, and a year from the day 
that Officedogski came to us we stood watching the great 
ferry boat cut her way through the ice and steam slowly 
back and forth across the stately river. The winter had 
been an open one and navigation had not, up to this 



32 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

Christmas eve, been suspended. The boat was hung 
with banners in honor of the holiday, and many people 
were enjoying the long advertised "last trip of the 
season." 

All at once Omcedogski began barking wildly and 
leaped about in a frenzy of joy ! In a moment he turned 
a glance of farewell and entreaty upon us and dashed 
away at full speed toward the water. A man on board 
the slowly moving steamer whistled sharply to him, and 
with an almost human cry of love and gladness the little 
dog leaped into the river and began swimming desperately 
to the boat. The man watched with an amused smile 
on his face while the little creature struggled with the 
waves. 

"Help him, somebody! somebody help that brave 
little dog!" Isadore cried, the tears streaming down 
her cheeks ; but either the people could not hear or 
could not rescue. 

Faster and faster the boat steamed away and 
fainter grew the strokes of the little black paws ; but 
through the icy waters looked the patient face with the 
loving eyes still fixed on the features of his master on 
the deck. 



THE PASSING OF OFFICEDOGSKI. 33 

"He's a game little chap/' said a man beside us, 
brushing his rough sleeve across his eyes and turning 
away, " but I'd hate to have on my conscience what that 
master of his has now. He had deserted him, you see ; 
and he whistled for him to come just then to show his 
power to the folks around, knowin' full well the dog 
would go through fire and water at his word. Ah ! there 
he is ! No ! — poor, poor little fellow ! " 

A long, mournful, despairing cry came to our ears 
and we turned away as the ice filled waters of the river 
swept over the head of our comrade — our little friend, 
faithful and brave and all-forgiving Officedogski. 



IF IT IS TRUE. 

If it is true that here and everywhere 
About me is a spirit-peopled air, 

Where loved ones wait 
To guide me, when at last I win the race, 
Up through the fragrant fields of star-hung space 

To heaven's gate; 

If it is true that from all bondage free 
The one who loved me here still loveth me, 

Then tell me, friend: 
Why, like a bar of steel 'tween me and harm, 
Does he not stretch and hold his mighty arm 

And me defend i» 

Think you he drank forgetrulness with Death ? 
That he, unmoved, can hear my sobbing breath 

And anguish wild? 
Nay, tell me rather that, in dreamless rest, 
He lieth where no cry can reach his breast 

Of his hurt child. 



34 




WtW Yi 






I&. ffurve ofkouhtry roadAhat slip 
s w/To thread! the fragrant/ mazes of tne^ 
J/rj[ Where daffodils are peeping from their .{wu* , 

(And jgentfans turn shy glances toward the Hg&V^ 
A^fretch of field to pass, -a hill's Incline*^ V"^ 
sudden turning in the willow lane 
faint tap tap -against the/window 
And all I hold against my ifeart Is 



5C*WfEp7«/V 




35 



CONSIDER THE LILIES. 

The flower-burdened wagon drew up in front of the 
florist's door, and the hurrying crowd turned interested 
and admiring glances upon the profusion of clustering 
roses and feathery ferns and the waxen beauty of 
camelias and hyacinths. Potted plants nodding in fra- 
grance and bloom ; baskets, smilax-twined, heaped into 
censers of incense for the shrine of love ; and the lilies — 
tall, beautiful, and pure — 

" Consider the lilies." 

The words fell half mechanically, from lips unused 
to gentle sounds. The woman, walking with unsteady 

steps along the way, muttered them beneath her breath. 
Where had she heard them before ! Not at the prison 
whose doors had opened for her but that day — not 
there! but somewhere — 

She pushed the matted hair from her forehead, and 
turned her bleared and sunken eyes back toward the 
stately chalices that filled the wide arch at the wagon's 
end. Suddenly a flush crept over her wrinkled cheeks, 
a crafty look shot through the hopeless misery of her 

36 



CONSIDER THE LILIES. 37 

eyes. She slipped in between the horses crowded at the 
curb and raised a grimy hand among the cool, green 
leaves. She had been a thief for many years ; why 
should that touch strike on her senses as the sight had 
done, with some restraining memory? She dropped her 
hand. What did she want of a posy, anyway? It 
might get her back into the cell she hated. Pah ! 

She bent her brows over her sullen eyes and turned 
away. 

But now the florist's door had opened, and a wave 
of fragrance swept around her. The boy, with arms 
filled with the nodding bloom, pushed back the lilies to 
make room for more, leaped to the seat and turned to 
drive away. The woman lingered, watching with oddly 
wistful eyes, when, suddenly, snapped from its brittle 
stem by the starting of the horse, a snowy blossom flut- 
tered to her feet. She snatched it up with a cry — half 
smothered and inarticulate with joy or pain — and, hiding 
it beneath her shawl, hurried away. 

On through the streets she pressed ; past the gay 
windows of the busy stores, threading her way, unseeing, 
through the crowd until the buildings grew few and the 



38 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

fresh young grass began to show in patches by the 
roadside. 

"I didn't steal it," she murmured, taking it from 
beneath her shawl and looking at it with triumphant 
eyes. She bent to lay its whiteness against her cheek, 
then stopped, while a strange look crept over her 
dull face. 

" I ain't fit to touch it," she moaned ; " Oh, I ain't 
fit to touch it!" 

She turned out of the traveled way and walked with 
the swift steps of one pursued toward a quiet field where 
the tall trees were showing buds of green and swaying 
with the endless "Hush, 0, hush!" their whispered 
lullaby for those at rest in the low, narrow beds beneath 
their shade. 

Once in the refuge of God's lowly acre, the woman 
sank down upon the ground and bowed her head until it 
rested on her breast. The sin-barred gates of her past 
had opened at an Easter lily's touch and showed her 
glimpses of a better time. She raised the blossom with 
caressing hand and laid it on the dewy grass beside her. 

"'Consider the lilies' — Why! I mind it now; it 
came from that old Book my mother read. Her, that I 



CONSIDER THE LILIES. 39 

haven't thought about for years ! Seems like I 'most 
could say another bit — about the sins that's washed as 
white as wool." 

She laid her head down by the lily and gazed upon 
it long and steadily. 

"It all comes back to me," she said, at last, as if 
the flower heard and understood. "It all comes back 
to me now. There was somethin' she used to tell about 
'a faithful sayin' — " the words came slowly from the 
unaccustomed lips — "'a faithful sayin' — worthy of 
acceptance — that Jesus Christ came into the world to 
save sinners."' 

She clasped her hands around her knees and sat a 
long time rocking to and fro, while through her long- 
clouded brain swept wondrous scenes. 

She saw a woman pressing through a crowd to touch 
the garment of the Nazarene. She saw another, shame- 
bowed, like herself, and heard His bidding: "Go and 
sin no more ; " and yet another whose penitential tears 
fell on the feet she bathed in precious ointment and dried 
with her long hair. 

A wave of unknown tenderness swept through her 
heart. "I would give Him the lily," she sobbed. It 



40 IF TAM SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

was all she had, and the alabaster box broken by the 
other Magdelen was not more precious. 

The evening came, but still she sat there with the 
lily gleaming whitely through the dusk. Her thoughts 
led through the garden to the cross. The outcast saw 
uplifted there the son of God. 

Sunday had dawned. The preachers read the 
words: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that 
believeth in me though he were dead yet shall he live." 
And out under the April sky a woman lay, pure as the 
lily gleaming on her pulseless breast, a fragrant Easter 
lily, white as her new garment of immortality. 




EVEN IN FAR JAPAN. 

It was in the time of the cherry bloom, 
A twelfth month past in far Japan, 
When under its over-arching shade 
She came, with a look as sweet and staid 
As the dame's on a paper fan. 

I'd been browsing 'round, as a tourist will, 
Bored half to death, I'll frankly own, 
By the snub-nosed roofs, the paper walls, 
The squat, black gods in their gaudy stalls, 
And the carvings of bronze and stone. 

I cared not a rap for the Buddha calm, 
For one of the idols gray and grim, 
But here was an "object" diff'rent, quite; 
And softly along through shade and light 
She came with her footsteps prim. 

She'd a scarlet wreath in her raven hair; 
Her obi hung in a fetching bow; 
Her feet, in queer, little, fingered hose, 
Fell each as soft as a falling rose, 
And I wondered which way she'd go. 
41 



4 2 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 



She paused like a dove that has lost its way, 
Her soft robe stirr'd o'er her gentle breast. 
"Damsel," I cried, "are you straying here, 
With your coolie small and 'rik'sha near, 
While you utter your soul's behest?" 

"I haven't a jinrikisha," she said, 

With cheeks like bloom where the sun doth sfrike; 

"But I've come far, and 'tis growing late, 

So please go down to the temple gate 

And wheel along up with my bike." 

It was in the time of the cherry 

bloom — 
I'm sure of that — and 'twas in Japan 
But did I dream ? Did that vision 

speak 
My native slang in the accents 

meek 
Of a dame of the paper fan ? 




THE OLD BUGLER. 
J* 

He seemed anxious to get away from the rest of the 
veterans who spent a few hours between trains in Lincoln 
park yesterday, and he finally wandered down one of the 
sheltered paths that lead to the lake, and emerged at a 
spot out of the way of the usual visitor. 

Once there, he looked up and down a little anx- 
iously, and then drew from the breast of his shabby blue 
coat a battered old bugle. 

The instrument was tarnished and bruised, and the 
once scarlet tassels were faded, but the old man held it 
in his hands lovingly and turned it from side to side, 
lingering over it as one might over an object of peculiar 
beauty. 

" I wonder if I dast? " he said at last, aloud, smil- 
ing the shamed, pleased, diffident smile of unusual daring. 

1 ' I ain't tried it fur thirty year, but I uster make it 
sing — an* I b'leeve I could now ! " 

He raised the instrument to his lips, but they 
twitched nervously and he could not make a sound. 

43 



44 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

Twice and three times, and then, high, clear, but trem- 
ulous, rose the first sharp notes of the reveille. 

The old man laughed to himself and hugged the 
tasseled bugle to his breast. 

" That's good, comrade, try again ! " 

A carriage had stopped near him, and an old gentle- 
man was leaning forward with a look of eagerness on 
his pale, stern face. 

"I suppose I've heard that old call, but I haven't 
noticed it for a good many years. Play it again, 
won't you? " 

The old soldier hesitated. " I've pretty nigh forgot 
how," he said, then repeated the stirring strains more 
confidently. 

The gentleman left his carriage and went over to 
stand beside the trumpeter as one after another of the 
familiar signals fell from the tarnished, brown lips of 
the army bugle ; and by and by a flush crept into his 
cheeks and a light touched his eyes and he sang : 
Blow out your lights, you lazy bummers, 
Blow out your lights and go to bed — 
The soldiers' well-known accompaniment. 

Both old men were laughing now in the foolish, 



THE OLD BUGLER. 45 

beautiful, old soldier way. Then they shook hands and 
began over again : 

Come down to the stable 
All ye who are able, 
And give your poor horses 
Some hay and some corn ; 
For if you don't do it, 
The colonel will know it — 
And you'll go the guardhouse 
As sure as you're born ! 
The music died in a dismal discord. 
"Comrade," said the old man, with a droll wink, 
" I don't recollect that it was the ' guardhouse ' where 
the boys said they'd go when they uster sing it." 

"It wasn't, you old rascal, it wasn't ! " roared the 
singer, slapping the bugler on his thin shoulders. " Let's 
have it again, and we'll sing it right ! " And they did. 
"What regiment, comrade ?" he asked, as with 
bugle replaced in the shabby coat the trumpeter locked 
his arm within his. "Nineteenth Michigan? Why, 
man, I was with the Thirty-third Indiana ! We've been 
in some pretty hard fights together in our day. Those 
two regiments were like brothers ! " 



46 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

He paused and looked at his companion closely, 
noting the worn garments, the weary, careworn face and 
silver hair, and then said gently and a little hesitatingly : 

"Is the world using you pretty well, old friend?" 

"Oh, yes," a flush dying the wrinkled face. "I — 
I can't complain. The boys of my post are sendin' me 
to the reunion in Buffalo ; an' when I git back I guess 
they can git me into the Soldier's home — I never did 
exactly like the idea of that — I'd ruther work till I'm 
mustered out — but," the voice trembled, bravely re- 
sumed, and then failed utterly, and the old man turned 
his face toward the lake to hide his tears. The other 
man had been looking at him intently. 

" In '63, " he said, " I had my life saved by a young 
bugler. It was in a little skirmish, and I was the mark 
for a cavalryman's saber. I saw it coming, but was 
hemmed in so I couldn't help myself. In a second I 
would have been struck down, when a boy from the 
ranks sprang between us. It must have cut through his 
shoulder — " 

"It did, Cap'n!" 

The other stripped off his coat and turned back his 



THE OLD BUGLER. 47 

rough flannel shirt, leaving the right shoulder bare. A 
deep white scar disfigured it. 

The man addressed as "Cap'n" put his hand upon 
it very tenderly. 

" I ought to have known you before, John," he said, 
simply. "But never mind that now. When you come 
back from Buffalo you are not going into any soldiers' 
home but mine. And when taps are sounded from above 
you'll rest on as good a pillow as you've ever had along 
the march. Good-by, comrade. I'll meet you next 
week when you come back, and we'll go home." 



HOOTS! BOBBY BURNS! 

Hoots ! Bobby Burns ! I've read yer rhyme, 
An' marvel, mon, thot in yer time 

Ye wished to see, "as ithers," 
The mony blunders that I ken 
Ye took some joy in makin' then, 

Wi' a' yer tavern brithers ! 

Ah ! lad, if ye had read th' looks 
Th' kirk folk gie ye, an' yer books, 

Ye'd ne'er hae been discernin 
The wee bit timid mousie there, 
As fra' th' furrowed ground yer share 

The daisy was upturnin' ! 

Ye'd hae'd a puir opinion, Rab, 
O' writer chaps ; an' dour an' sad 

Yer manners ye'd been mendin'. 
I ken ye'd tried yer hand at psalms — 
An' wi th' ither baa-in' lambs, 

Th' synod been attendin'. 

48 



hoots! bobby burns! 49 

Ye war a waefV rascal, lad. 
I dinna ken ane half sae bad 

Save ane they ca' Will Shakespeare ; 
An' ane — I mind me noo — ca'ed Poe ; 
An' ane — but sin' their ghaists ye know, 

Their names sma' matter makes here. 

Nae doot t'gither noo, an' snug, 
Ye spin yer yarn an' dreen yer mug 

Wi' ne'er a coof above ye. 
Ye'd faults — aye, lad, I ken them well, 
There's mony wad surprise yersel ; 

But — Bobby Burns, I love ye ! 



ROMANCE IN THE IRISH VILLAGE. 

J> 

It was time for the dance in one of the Irish vil- 
lages at the World's Fair. The green-stockinged lad 
who played the pipes was beating with his foot the meas- 
ures of the tune as the shock-haired boy with the emerald 
sash and hose leaped on the wooden floor and struck 
the time. Gradually the various groups of people scattered 
about the court gathered into a circle around the plat- 
form; and as the time-honored strains that have quick- 
ened the pulses and bewitched the feet for generations 
sounded clearer and faster, some of the onlookers forgot 
the dignity of their American citizenship, and, with hands 
clapping and bodies swaying, gave vent to their long 
repressed enthusiasm in words half smothered with the 
burr of the old tongue. Across the faces of many a 
substantial man and gracious, dignified woman flitted the 
look that they had once lifted to the lovely skies of 
Ireland, and through the smiles that kindled in their eyes 
shone homesick tears. 

Monom dho Dhia ! Will the Irish feet ever keep 
quiet or the Irish blood run slow ? Not while the harp 
is on the green flag and the heart of Erin feels ths 

50 



ROMANCE IN THE IRISH VILLAGE. 



51 




mingled joy and pathos of its unuttered 
music! The jig dancer .with fine young body 
held erect and light and swift falling feet, 
warmed to the work. The piper leaned 
forward in his chair and beat the plat- 
form with increasing zeal. A smile hung 
round his mouth and touched his eyes. 
Suddenly the crowd parted a little at one 
side and a young girl sprang up and 
joined the dance. She was an Ameri- 
can, a visitor, slim, quiet and demure. 
But the blood of some Celtic ancestor tingled in her 
veins, darkening her eyes and setting a flame in her 
cheeks and the pulse of rhyme in her feet. 

Then 'twas forward an' back, 

An' across an' around, 
Wid her hand on her hip, 

An' her glance on the ground. 

The gossoon before her 

Turned faint wid amaze, 
But he took her soft hand, 

An' he met her soft gaze. 



52 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

An' the music swirled on 

As the fire-flies float; 
Like a bird in the air 

Hung each golden winged note. 

Till she tripped the swate time 

Ivbold-Rory O'More," 
Wid his heart for a platform 

Instead of the flure. 

The music stopped and the girl, blushing, breathless 
and bewildered, slipped into the cheering crowd. 

My heart had been leaping with the melody; and all 
at once I became conscious that an old man among 
the spectators on the other side of the platform was 
gazing at me with the intent look of one trying to grasp 
and place some elusive resemblance. Our eyes met 
many times and there was always in his a doubtful and 
half pathetic questioning. At last he made his way to 
where I stood, and, baring his silver hair, with old world 
grace, said, with a smile of such frank friendliness I 
could find no reason for resentment: 

"Ah, ye're an Irish gurrl, an' ye've no call to be 
ashamed of it." 



ROMANCE IN THE IRISH VILLAGE. 



53 



"Yes," I replied. "My blood is half and I begin to 
think my heart is all Irish. My father was a north of 
Ireland man." 

"I knew it," he said, with a smile of satisfaction 
lighting his withered face. And then the gallantry of his 
race could no longer be suppressed. "I knew it. Yer 
blue eyes are homesick, an' the smudge underneath thim 
is the mournin' they're wearin' for Ireland. Wor ye born 
in the auld country ? No ? Oah, Erin is quane iv the 
world!" He drew himself up, erect and soldierlike. 

Poor, sad-eyed queen ! The single emerald in your 
iron crown outshines, in such fond eyes, the blazing coro- 
nets of all the earth; and your throne rests on 
the quivering hearts of such devoted sons. 

The old man still lingered by my side, 
but he was silent for a long time. A rem- 
iniscent look settled upon his features, and 
when at last he spoke his voice was strangely 
grave and tender. 

"I've been watchin' ye for a half hour 
past," he said; "watchin' yer Irish eyes and 
smile; an' yer face takes me back across 
the says an' across the years, for it is like 




54 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 




that of a gurrl I used to know when 
I was a young man. * * * I can 
hear her laugh as plain as when it 
rippled ever the lakes that war like 
jewels around old Tyrone county in 
thim days." 

"Was that your home?" I lis- 
tened with a new interest, for he had 
named my father's county. 

"Tyrone ? Oah, yes, it war Ty- 
rone," he replied, 

"And what was the name of the girl who looked as 
I look so many years ago?" 

"Molly Mulholland, it war," he replied, a heart throb 
breaking through the quiet tone. "Oah, it war Molly 
Mulholland." 

I turned to him in great surprise. "She was my 
own grandmother!" I cried. But his ears were dulled or 
filled with other voices and he did not seem to sense 
my words. 

Strange things like this may happen every day. But 
my heart still thrills with the wonder of it; for across the 
seas and across the years this old man came to find in 



ROMANCE IN THE IRISH VILLAGE. 55 

my face the look of the woman he had loved full sixty 
years ago; the look veiled by the grave from Erin's skies 
for half a century; the look of my grandmother, Molly 
Mulholland 



SONGS AT SEA. 

Fresh blew the wind ; with buoyant thrill 
The white-sailed ship her canvas spread ; 

While groups of passengers at will 

Paced the wide deck or talked, or read. 

"Let's have a song," the captain cried, 
" Some good old tune that all can sing. 

Come, on a favorite decide, 

And we will make the topmasts ring. 

" What shall it be? " An English bride 
Looked back to where the white cliffs gleam, 

Then turned with loyalty and pride 

And softly sang " God Save the Queen ! " 

The captain smiled. " Now let all speak." 

A German gave a wordless sign, 
Then named with kindling eyes and cheek 

The Saxon's boast, " Die Wacht am Rhein." 

" Now I ' Ye Mariners ' prefer," 
The captain said. " Madame Frangaise? " 
56 



SONGS AT SEA. 57 

She answered: "N'importe, monsieur," 
But lightly trilled " La Marseillaise." 

Another's stalwart bosom swelled 
And 'neath his curling lash was seen 

A trampled spirit still unquelled, 
While rose " The WearhV o' the Green." 

"Hoots mon, ye mak too much ado ; 

We'll ne'er get settled on a tune ! 
Ring out ' The Campbell's Comin', noo', 

Or ' Scots Wha Hae ' or ' Bonnie Doon ! ' " 

"The theme I choose," a soft voice said, 
" Floats o'er us now with shelt'ring care." 

All looked to see unfurled o'erhead 
The starry banner, proud and fair. 

" And yet I would not care to fling 

Up to the skies my praise alone. 
Oh, hearts of men, what would you sing 

Except the notes of * Home, Sweet Home? ' " 

Oh, magic words ! With one consent 
The nations voiced that one refrain ! 



58 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

What though the tones were strangely blent, 
If home the word, or heim, or hame? 

Their wing'ed thoughts the singers freed 
To seek that land of lands again. 

If tears fell fast they did not heed, 
But slaked their soul-thirst in the rain. 

Oh, wayward, loyal, human heart, 

Though careless, cold and world-worn grown, 
Unerring flies the song-plumed dart 

Tipped with the golden words, " My Home. ,, 



AT THE REFUGE OF SAINT SOPHIA. 

J* 

The afternoon shadows crept into the little sewing- 
room of the Refuge of Saint Sophia, and the pale mother 
superior folded her work, smoothing the coarse seams 
with careful hands, and stepped out on the western 
porch. Her glance drifted across the well-filled waving 
fields and rested upon the white road winding across the 
background of green and slipping from sight in the deep 
wooded stretch that joined the hazy purple of the far hori- 
zon. How long the way had been to her torn feet when, 
after days and nights of ceaseless journeying, she reached 
this refuge, nestled in the great Swiss mountains, and 
with a wild and sobbing cry had fallen blind and fainting 
at its door. 

Why, that was fifty years ago — fifty years ! And she 
had prayed so earnestly, it seemed she could not even 
wait the time of asking, to die then. Ah ! she had learned 
to live since that time, and had caught the secret of for- 
getfulness in loving servitude for others. She wondered 
now, a little vaguely, how the world that she had known 
would look to her long sheltered eyes. They heard so 
little in this place, even when nations shook with the 

59 



6o IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 



toppling down of thrones. And it was well. She, mother 

of mercy ! she had heard enough. 

She lifted her hand to shade her eyes and the red 

sunlight shimmered through its transparent flesh quite as 

it did that afternoon in May when at her wedding fete 

she had lifted the ruby wine and cried: 

"Vive la patrie ! Vive le roi !" looking in eyes that 

spoke again to hers. 

But hark! She knew the mutterings long heard 
around the throne had swelled 
into a savage cry, and "the 
faint, long echoing footsteps" 
become a trampling, living sea, 
breaking in ever fiercer waves 
of blood and devastation against 
the eight grim towers of the 
Bastile, under whose shadows all 
the day St. Guillotine counted 
her beads. It was her wedding 

day! Could they not hush for those tender hours 

the awful cries and the wild clamor of the blood-drunk 

mob? 

She saw again the garden's leafy shade, the fierce- 




AT THE REFUGE OF SAINT SOPHIA. 6l 

eyed horde that came unbidden guests, the scowling, 
red-capped woman who tore off her bridal-wreath and 
raised a crimsoned knife to strike her down. Afterward, 
through the horror-filled days of hiding and of flight, she 
felt that she had heard the harsh inswinging of the Bas- 
tile doors shutting the love-light on her young husband's 
face forever from her sight. But the pitying friends who 
saved her life that day told her that he had fallen there, 
and then she had gone mad ! Hark ! Was that a tum- 
brel rattling over the pavement? Ah, no; only a peasant's 
cart moving along the quiet country road. The woman 
made the sign across her breast, stilling the tempest 
of her soul. 

It was always shady in the afternoon where the rose- 
vines climbed to the mossy roof and laid their dewy 
blossoms against the gray columns of the wide piazza; and 
the old man sat where the breeze stole over the jasmine 
at the side before it came to touch the thin white locks 
upon his brow, sat there alone with the past, and seeing 
only the scenes that memory painted on the inner curtains 
of his sightless eyes. No one knew who he was or where 
he came from beyond the name given in the brief entry 
in the yellow-leaved register. The writing of that was a 



62 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

little unsteady, too. Quite unlike the mother's usually 
careful hand. But she had written it the day he came 
with feeble steps along the dusty road, groping his hesi- 
tating way up to the ever-open door. 

"Jean d'Armand," he had answered when asked his 
name, and even the children noticed that her face grew 
whiter as she said: 

"Jean? I did not hear aright. Did you say Jean 
d'Armand?" 

The old man turned his face, tense with the listen- 
ing look the blind have, at her voice and replied: 

"Oui, madame, Jean d'Armand." 

She drew the folds of her veil still closer about her 
face, whispering to herself the stranger's name. 

The days went round, a skein of light and shadow 
wound from the hands of Time, and the stranger seemed 
content. He spoke but seldom to the rest, but lived, 
as the blind must, in a world peopled with memories. 
The earth sounds grew so indistinct and low they 
ceased to jar upon his ear. He heard the music of the 
poplar trees unfurling their green and silver banners, and 
all the air was filled with whisperings of peace, the while 
he waited, a poor pilgrim, at the sunset gates of life. 



AT THE REFUGE OF SAINT SOPHIA. 63 

The sisters, flitting noiselessly about, spoke gently to 
him as they passed his way, and the little children, with 
wide, shy eyes lifted to his face, vaguely recognized the 
touch of sorrow there and tried to comfort him, 

"Is it because you are so near Heaven that your 
head is touched with snow, Father Jean?" said little 
Marie, whose gaze had wandered from the mountain's 
silver crown to the aged head beside her. 

"No, dear one," he replied; "it is because I am old." 

The child caught the note of pain in his voice and 
questioned with a caressing touch: 

"Does it hurt to be old, monsieur?" 

"Once I would have thought so, dear one," he re^ 
plied, "before the world I loved so much had crumbled 
into ashes, but now I have learned to say: 

"'I am old and blind, 

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown, 

Afflicted and deserted by my kind, 
Yet I am not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong; 

I murmur not that I no longer see; 

Poor, old and helpless, I the more belong, 
Father, Supreme, to Thee.' " 



64 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 



Another listened with the child, as with rapt, un- 
seeing eyes and glorified face the old man continued: 
" '0, Merciful One! 

When men are farthest then art Thou most near; 
When men pass by me and my weakness shun 

Thy chariot I hear.' " 
His voice rose in its triumphant joy, and in the 
shadows of the ivy at his side the black-robed nun stood 
with her thin hands clasped across her breast and yearn- 
ing eyes fixed on his face. 

"Jean!" The cry burst from 
her long-disciplined lips. 

The old man started from 
his seat. "Who calls me?" 
he cried. "Who calls my name 
with the voice I thought drowned 
in the commune's roar?" 

"I called you, Jean, Jean 
d'Armand." And the nun stood 
there before him, straight and 
tall, the sunset glow touching 
her white hair and face with 
almost saintly beauty. 




AT THE REFUGE OF SAINT SOPHIA. 65 

"I called you — " And the heart-throbs broke in 
waves the simple words: "Now speak my name." 

He struck his hand against his eyes as if to break 
the seal of darkness there, and then cried, it seemed to 
the woman's soul, with a voice like the angels' calling to 
the dead "Arise !" 

"Ninon, Ninon, my wife!" 

Earth has few moments of such solemn joy; and as 
he told her how the grave had yawned and turned him, 
like the Wandering Jew, away, they heard the angelus from 
the gray, distant tower, and knelt together in the fad- 
ing light. The darkness deepened and the woman's head 
slipped over till it rested on his breast; and when the 
sisters came with loving care to lead her feeble steps 
away to her bare, white cell for the night's rest they 
found that One had been before them and had touched 
the faces of those reunited ones with that still look of 
peace that men have misnamed death. 



TO MY OLD WHEEL. 
J* 

You would get no prize, I know, 
Dear old wheel, at cycle show, 

And good reason ! 
For you passed through sorry days, 
While I learned your playful ways, 

That first season. 

True, you weren't so very fine 
When I caught the dealer's sign, 

" Second-handed." 
And I paid for you, my dear 
In installments, which I fear 

He demanded. 

From the time the daffodils 
Set their crinkled yellow frills 

Flaunting gayly, 
And from time of vi'lets bloom 
Till the golden rod's dark plume 

Deepened daily, 

66 



TO MY OLD WHEEL. 6? 

You and I were comrades true — 
You to me and I to you 

Faithful ever. 
Through the starshine and the day, 
Storm and sun, we kept our way 

Close together. 

Now as Winter lifts his wing 

From his breast, where sleeps the Spring, 

I have sought you ; 
Just to tell you not to fret 
Or to think I have regret 

That I bought you. 

Were you sorrowful, old friend, 
Waiting, in the dust, the end? 

Let me tell you ; 
Not for sake of any wheel 
That the season can reveal 

Would I sell you ! 



"FY AIN' Y0'?" 
J* 

Li'l brer Squirrel brung in his coal 
Wen Jack Fros' fust cantered fro ; 

Packed his taters in dere hole — 
W'y am' yo' all done dat too? 

He van gwine ter be su'prise 
Wen ole Winter bu's' de doh ; 

He done kep' his wedder eyes 
On de harves' fiel's an' stoh. 

Gedder dar an' gedder yere — 
Ain' no time foh foolin' t'ings ; 

Den he tips his easy cheer 

An' he plunks de banjo strings. 

Craps all in, an' geddered dar ; 

LoafuVs all he's gotter do ; 
Whiff de smoke fum his cigar — 

Wy ain' yo' all done dat, too ? 

68 



THE BELLE OF THE BLOCK. 

Along about 5 o'clock, when the afternoon sunlight 
was mellowed a little by slowly purpling shadows, and the 
red-cheeked factory girls commenced trooping by on their 
homeward way, we began to watch for her. Perhaps you 
would not have noticed her among the rest, she was so 
tiny — quite hidden, if she walked between their irregular 
phalanxes, or even if one of her sturdy, broad-shouldered 
companions kept on either side of her in their vague, 
unspoken sympathy for her infirmity. Not that she re- 
quired pity! There was not a step among them as light 
as hers and her small head lifted over the cruelly de- 
formed shoulders as brightly and as bravely as though 
she never had heard the whisper "hunchback" as she 
passed along the street. I often lingered at my window 
to see her trip up the steps of the dingy boarding-house 
across the way, and then, if the day were fair, to wait 
until she reappeared, her little red cap removed and her 
face and hands glowing rosily from their brisk, cold bath, 
and noted how she poised and fluttered from one side of 
the iron guarded porch to the other; for I knew that it 
would not be long before the handsome blond giant frorr 
♦ 6 9 



yo IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

the corner drug-store would meet the pale young man 
from the opposite boarding-house at the foot of those 
same stairs — for they were rivals, and the little cripple 
girl was the belle and coquette of the block. 

It was winter when I saw her first; and since the 
day that she raised her eyes and answered my bow and 
smile as she passed, we have been friends. A red carna- 
tion grew in my window and I often pinned a glowing 
blossom on the little gray fur boa at her throat; but mine 
were not the only flowers she wore. I looked across the 
street upon a charming little love drama, but could not, 
from my distance, decide which was the more favored 
lover. The two men seemed equally devoted, but I often 
wondered if either of them would be willing to take "for 
better or worse, through sickness and health" the little 
cripple, who now, as though unconscious of her misfortune, 
received their homage with all the graciousness of a 
woman of the world, without betraying by word or sign 
the slightest preference. I favored the blond at first, 
he was so splendidly big and strong — and she would 
need such sure, untiring arms! But I learned that the 
other was a neighbor, one who had grown up on the 
farm adjoining her little home, and who had followed 



THE BELLE OF THE BLOCK. ?I 

her to the city when she came, with the unspoken pur- 
pose of being near her and shielding her as far as possible 
from every care and danger. 

It was a strange and beautiful thing to note the 
strong, pure love surrounding that helpless little creature, 
and I often pondered upon the end of the story. Some- 
times Jo Field, the country lover, would stop to talk with 
me as he was going home in the twilight, and one night 
his heart overflowed into confidence. 

"Have you seen Minnie to-day?" he questioned. "I 
think she is growing pale and thin; that factory is killing 
her! Oh, if she would only let me take her home!" 

His voice trembled on the last word and I could 
see that his dark eyes were full of tears. 

I hesitated a little, but finally said: 

"Do you really wish to make that little one your 
wife ? ' ' 

He looked at me very earnestly and his plain face 
grew noble as he answered: 

"It has been my hope since she was a tiny child 
and I was the only one who could carry her about with- 
out hurting her. I am the one to take care of her 
always, and when she will let me I shall take her home." 



72 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAt> A WHEEL. 

Sunday and yesterday I watched for my little friend 
and felt an odd sense of anxiety because I did not see 
her. Sunday is always both holy day and gala day with 
Minnie; for, good little Christian that she is, she trips off 
very early to church, and then, with a bright ribbon in 
her pretty hair and a rose pinned at her throat among 
the laces of her dainty gown, she flits from window to 
porch of the house across the way, or walks in the park 
or along the Lake Shore drive with Jo or the blond 
young giant from the drug-store. 

This week I had not seen her, and when last night 
my bell rang hurriedly I felt a vague sense of alarm and 
expectancy which was not lessened when Jo entered 
the room. His face was whiter than usual and deep 
shadows lay under his eyes. 

"Minnie was hurt by the cable Saturday," he said in 
a dull, monotonous voice. "To-night they are to tell me 
— what — to expect. I thought — may be — I could bear 
it better — if you should go with me. I " 

He turned hastily and left the room. I caught up 
my hat and cape and followed him silently. He walked 
as though in a dream, his hands hanging at his side, his 
eyes staring ahead in hopeless misery. I started to cross 



THE BELLE OF THE BLOCK. 73 

the street toward her lodgings, but he motioned onward. 

"To the hospital?" I asked, suddenly comprehending. 
He nodded, and we boarded the north -bound car and rode 
far along the brilliantly lighted street, until we reached the 
quieter neighborhood of the place we sought. My escort 
breathed unsteadily and walked with quick, nervous steps 
along the path, shining white in the moonlight, and up to 
the door. 

We followed the low-voiced sister through the long, 
quiet halls and up to a little white-walled room. The man 
was on his knees beside the snowy iron bed in an instant, 
his lips falling softly and reverently upon the thin hand 
outside the counterpane. 

"Minnie," he whispered gently, yet with an intensity 
of love and longing; "Minnie, can you speak to me?" 

The lids fluttered and lifted over the dark eyes and 
her glance rested upon his face. 

"Poor old Joey," she whispered, while something 
like her old arch smile lighted her white and pain-drawn 
face, "you're going — to have — such a ridic'lous wife." 
The words were half lost in the long-drawn sigh of 
perfect contentment. 



74 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. . 

"Minnie!" the rapture of a lifetime was condensed 
into the utterance of that one word. She nodded faintly 
and her hand crept up until it rested on his head and 
then down to cover the pain she knew must gather in 
his eyes as she said: 

"I can— never walk again — joey, but," she lifted his 
face to meet the gladness shining in her own, through 
all her tears, "but — I am glad I am going to get well." 

To-morrow they are going to be married. Was there 
ever anything at once so foolish and so beautiful ? 

"She needs me now, much more than ever," he 
explains, "for I could always carry her about in my arms 
without hurting her, and I have loved her since she was 
just — so — high." 




OLD SETTLERS. 

Old Silas Bangs was reely bent 
On bein' "oldest resident;" 
Got here in eighteen twenty-one— 
But Hodge sed that was when he come. 
An' them two haggled hard an' fast 
Ter find out which hed come here last. 

It looked like foolishness ter me 
Ter see them old chaps disagree. 
Si chawed terbacca by the pound, 
And argyfied, when Hodge was 'round, 
About the time they bridged the creeK, 
Or when John Smith was taken sick. 

Hodge said his ox team floundered down 
In a big hole that's now the town. 
But Bangs was sure as he could be 
The hole wan't there till twenty-three; 
An', more'n that, he'd thought it o'er, 
The road wan't built till twenty-four! 

He'd come along an Injun trail 
An' cut the timber in the swale; 
75 



y6 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

That him an' Widder Potter's boy 
Laid down to make aie corduroy 
Across the swamp, so they could haul 
Their tavern lumber 'fore the fall. 

Hodge said that it wan't no such thing ! 
The log house there was built the spring 
Of eighteen twenty; an' he knowed 
Just all about who made that road! 
Then them old chaps would draw up nigh'r 
An' growl, like dogs, afore the fire. 

I've seen 'em fight like barefoot kids, 
An' clinch an' punch each ether's ribs. 
Till Bangs was down, with Hodge on top, 
A-whimperin' fur him ter stop ! 
Hodge was a hundred, an' I guess 
Si, when he died, was suthin' less. 

Old settlers is so kinder source 
They give Si carriages an' hearse. 
But if a man was ever glad 
'Twas Hodge there in the mourners' cab ! 
He didn't make no bones to say 
That he had won out, anyway. 



OLD SETTLERS. 



77 



But arter that he seemed to pine 

An' sort o' falter in the line; 

4, I ain't jes' sick," he said, "but now 

Life ain't wuth livin' enny how. 

Since Si's ben gone I've thought, with pain 

He'd got the best of me again ! 

"Wish I'd gone fust; for if I lag 

Si'll hev another chance ter brag; 

An' say he paved the golden street „ 

Afore it ever tetched my feet. 

But I dunno as I need care — 

There's some ahead of him up there!" 




VINES OF MEMORY. 

J* 

Where a regiment is bivouaced 

In God's quiet acre, there 
Where you see the banners waving 

In the fragrance-laden air, 
I, to-day, beheld a woman, 

Dark with Ethiopia's hue, 
Pray beside the lowly pillows 

Of the sleeping boys in blue. 

Like a bronze and graven sybil, 

Freed from silence for a space, 
Stood she with her soul illuming 

All her dark and furrowed face. 
And a score of race and kindred 

Gathered 'round her as she gave 
Thanks unto the God of freedom 

From her place beside the grave. 

"Lord," she cried, "we bring no garlands 
On this day to wreathe our dead; 

But we stretch our hands, unshackled, 
O'er each low and narrow bed; 
78 



VINES OF MEMORY. 79 

And the scarlet vines of mem'ry, 

Twined with immortelles, will be 
Rooted in these graves and growing 

'Round the flag and up to Thee! 

"Thou didst strike our chains asunder 

With thy flaming sword of Right, 
And from 'neath the cloud of bondage 

Led us out into the light. 
Great the price that sealed our ransom 

At the nation's judgment bar, 
V/hen for us and for our children 

Fell the flame-fringed pall of war. 

"These who rest are they whose life-blood 

Filled a fount for us to lave, 
Where a man came forth who entered 

The red flood a shackled slave, 
And with level-lidded glances 

Gazed his master in the face, 
Never more to cringe and tremble 

In his base, degraded place. 

"We, with lifted eyes, are standing 
'Tween the dead and quick to-day; 



SO IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

The Grand Army of Republic — 
Still our shield and still our stay, 

Keep us ever loyal to them, 
Let the vines of mem'ry be 

Rooted in these graves and growing 
Round the flag and up to Thee !" 




SUNDOWN. 
J* 

He stood long at the western window, the last faint 
rays of the setting sun gilding his splendid head and 
lighting his strangely quiet features. 

" Daughter," he called as I entered the room, 
"come and see the sunset." 

I slipped beneath the window's drapery of lace and 
stood beside him. "Why ! father/' I began — 

"Look," he said, "how the clouds pile up over the 
towers of pearl and jasper — " 

"But, father—" 

"And see how the scarlet glory laps about their 
base — a meeting of flame and ice ; a palace of snow on 
fire ! Away on the right the cloud mountains stand, 
their white brows bared like priests before an altar; 
their shoulders hung with amethyst and gold ; their veils 
of dusk threaded with purple and silver. The sky like a 
hollow sapphire, — their cathedral dome ! A rare and 
beautiful sunset, daughter — " 

"But father!" 

" Ah, the wind freshens. How spicy the air that 
81 



82 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

blows from the vineyards on the hill. Do you see the 
grapes ? Why, they are like the clusters of Eshcol ! 
They shine translucent as jewels in this golden light — " 
"But father, oh, father!—" 
" What is it you say ? ' The light has 1 
gone from the western sky and it is now quite dark ! ' 
Ah, little one, must it come so soon, so soon? Draw 
near to me, darling ; put your face close to mine, and 
we will wait together a little while in the darkness. All 
the to-morrows you must welcome for us both, dear, for 
I — come closer, daughter — I am blind — utterly blind ! " 



WHEN PAPA WAS A LITTLE BOY. 

When papa was a little boy 

He never had a single toy, 

'Cept jes' a knife 'at gran 'ma kep' 

To dig up greens and mignonette; 

But my ! he had the mostest fun 

An' mostest larks of anyone. 

He had a stick jes' like a gun, 

An', all himself, he made a drum, 

An' nen he'd march an' march aroun' 

A-makin' such a drefful soun' 

'At gran'ma usto hide her head; 

"I guess the rebs have come !" she said. 

An' nen she'd watch a little while, 
An' nen she'd cry an* nen she'd smile, 
'Cause gran'pa wasn't gran'pa nen, 
He was jes' only "Cap'n Ben." 
An' papa was a soldier's boy 
'At didn't want no common toy. 

He'd weed the flower beds, and nen 
He'd whittle out some giant men, 
*3 




8 4 



IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 




An' dip 'em in the bluin' tub 
An' march 'em off wif rub-a-dub. 
An' cut more trees 'n Washin'ton, 
'Thout gettin' spanked for even one. 

His ma said Santy couldn't come 

'At Trismus, 'an he missed him some, 

But Trismus Eve, when all was dark, 

He made a dreat, big Noah's ark, 

An' lots of animals an' sings 

Wif yellow eyes an' dreat, black wings. 

An' jes' like Santy, packed 'em tight 
In auntie's stockin' in the night. 
My ! she was jes' as glad — as glad, 
'Cause 'at was all the gifts she had. 
An' papa laughed to hear her tell 
'At Santy liked her awful well ! 

I've got a sousand sings, I guess; 
Engines, an' tops, an' printin' press, 
A Shetlan' pony, an' a goat 
'At bumps me down, an' nen a boat. 
But I wish Papa'd saved 'at toy 
He played wif w'en he was a boy. 



MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

J> 

Mother tells me in her letter, with an effort to be gay, 

That she has counted seventy winged years! 
But the page is slightly crumpled where her nervous fin- 
gers lay, 

And here and there I see a mark of tears. 
So I'll slip away, to-morrow, to the quiet little place 

With mignonette and sweet briar overgrown; 
And, stealing in, will kiss her on her startled, joy-filled 
face; 

It's mother's birthday, and I'm going home ! 

She says: "The boys are coming, and I wish, my baby, 
you 
Could leave your story weaving for a while. 
I'm near the gates of evening, but I think the dusk and 
dew 
Will melt away before your loving smile." 
And then she tells me simply how her pray'rs attend 
my way 
Through all the weary paths I tread alone. 
My heart grows faint with longing, and I turn aside to say: 
It's mother's birthday, and I'm going home. 
85 



A SON OF ITALY. 
J* 

All the long summer he had kept the little glass- 
covered cart, like a showcase on wheels, on the same 
corner ; and the children for blocks around used to pat- 
ronize him, sure of a good measure of crisp white pop 
corn, and plenty of butter ; while the young people, strol- 
ling by in the early evening, often stopped long enough 
to buy one of the gayly striped paper bags. 

Through the hours the little gasoline flame flickered 
like a beacon in the darkness, and the late passer-by 
would hear the vender call cheerily : 

" Pop-a-corn ! Pop-a-corn ! Don't forgeta da pop- 
a-corn ! " He showed his white teeth in a wide smile as 
he spoke and shook the square wire popper over the fire 
until every round, brown grain had put out its snowy 
wings. " Buy a pop-a-corn! Nice, white pop-a-corn! 
Everybody lika ! " 

Night after night, as the season advanced, he stood 
in his accustomed place ; but as the autumn lost its 
brilliancy and the nights grew cold, a waffle vender 
moved down quite close to him and a wienerwurst man 

86 



A SON OF ITALY. 87 

took up a position on his other side. Patronage began 
to fall off as the cold increased ; and he saw with dark, 
reproachful eyes that many of his old-time customers 
were going over to his neighbors. His smile was less 
frequent ; a plaintive note crept into his call, and he 
often spread his hands, quite empty, over the blaze ; and 
the little pile of corn was undiminished. 

His companions regarded him with little favor, but 
one night a passer-by heard him try, with all the soft 
cajolery of his race, to convince the waffle-man that ten 
cents' worth of popcorn would be generous exchange for 
his two-for-five waffles. But the man was a Teuton and 
obdurate. 

"Nein," he said, and went on pouring the cream- 
like batter into the ridgy molds. 

The Italian went over to the wienerwurst cart : 

" Ten centa — nice pop-a-corn for ze leetle hot-hot? " 
he said. But the Irishman inside did not hear him, and 
he went slowly back across the street. A few late way- 
farers were still abroad. 

"Buy a pop-a-corn," he cried, piteously, " every- 
abody lika it — nobody buy it ! ' ' 



88 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

The soft snow that had been falling changed into a 
sleet, driven furiously by the wind that swept in from 
across the lake. The wienerwurst man, who should, in 
the fitness of things, have been a German, prepared to 
put out his light and turn in, when he suddenly caught 
sight of the dark eyes fixed wistfully upon him. 

" Hi ! Dago ! " he called, wrapping a couple of the 
sausages, steaming hot, in a brown paper. "It's my 
trate ! Warrum yersilf wid these an' be home wid yez ! " 

The man took them in his hand and then began to 
laugh wildly, his brain quite turned with the cold and 
hunger. He flung himself down upon the pavement with 
arms stretched wide and face turned up toward the 
storm. But when the police came he was very quiet and 
offered no resistance when they took him away. 

It was nearly daybreak, and they left him sitting 
quietly in the warm, dimly-lighted station. Twice he 
moved a little uneasily, and broken snatches of song fell 
from his lips, and once he startled the sleepy officer on 
duty by the words — beginning in a tone of cheery as- 
surance and ending in notes of indescribable pathos : 



A SON OF ITALY. 89 

" Everyabody lika it — noabody buy it ! " 

Morning came and the stir of the court began. The 
Italian's case was called and a policeman shook him 
vigorously, then bent, quite suddenly, and looked into 
his eyes. 

" Is your man ready, Mr. Officer? " questioned the 
judge. 

The officer removed his helmet and turned to face 
the court, a strange look upon his ruddy face. 

"Your honor," he answered, laying his hand gently 
on the shabby shoulder, " the man is dead." 



THE OLD MAN RIDES A WHEEL. 
Jl 

The girls was alius pest'rin' me 

To git a wheel and learn to ride. 
" Land, pa," they sez, "why, can't you see 

Thet folks as old as you hev tried? " 
An' they kep on until, by gum, 

I reckoned all I hed to do 
Was jest to ketch her on the run 

And jump aboard an' pedal through. 

I've rid good hosses all my days ; 

Broke hump-backed bronchos to the rein 
An' made a cayuse mend his ways 

When I was ranchin' on the plain ; 
An' so I sez : " Wall, yes, I'll go 

An' take a spin," with no concern 
Till mother raised her specs, jest so, 

An' sez : " Why, pa, you'll hev to learn ! 

I felt real riled ! I ain't so old 

Thet I don't know what I'm about ! 
I went right up to where they're sold 

90 



THE OLD MAN RIDES A WHEEL. 91 

An' bought a wheel an' fetched it out. 
The girls stood by, a-lookin' white, 

But snickered some an' called : "Take care ! " 
An' ma said : " Pa, it is a sight 

To see a fool with sich white hair ! " 

But I jest stiddied her an' went 

To mount as I'd ben told in town ; 
But 'peared to me the thing was bent, 

Fur it was sot on layin' down, 
An' every time I struck the seat, 

Jest like a mule 'twould kick an' balk, 
An' turn a summerset complete 

Across the flower bed an' walk. 

Ma held it up fur me at last 

Until I got my balance some, 
But when I started ped'lin' fast 

I couldn't stop the thing, I vum ! 
It tried to climb each pesky pole, 

An' jump the fences, an' the creek, 
An' by the time we struck thet hole 

I'll own thet I was feelin' sick. 



92 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

I knowed about it, an' I meant 

To steer away from where it lay. 
But, straight as if it hed ben sent, 

The wheel jest scooted off that way. 
I couldn't shake them toe-clips free 

Er stop her, fur I wasn't let ; 
An' if we hedn't struck that tree 

I guess we'd ben a goin' yet ! 

Biff, bang, I saw the splinters fly ; 

An' then, head over heels, I fell, 
A hundred feet — er purty nigh — 

Down to the bottom of the well 
Thet Green leaves open, careless like, 

On his back forty next to mine, 
An' there I was, with my new bike, 

A heap of kindlin' wood, split fine ! 

They fished me out. But when ma come 
On with the lumber wagon, made 

All soft to take her idjit hum, 

Jest one thing made me feel afraid. 

She's purty good, but nature ain't 



THE OLD MAN RIDES A WHEEL. 93 

A-goin' to let a chance to josh 
Go by like thet. I hed to faint 
To keep her still. I did, by gosh ! 

But thet's the way with women folks ; 

A chance to twit they'll never miss, 
An' lots of 'em will hev their jokes 

'Bout some sich little thing as this. 
But arter this I guess I'll stay 

Here on the porch an' smoke an' snooze ; 
An' leave the bicycle to play 

Its pranks with youngsters, if they choose. 



WHEN THE MOON WAS BAD. 

Muriel, out on the porch alone, 

When the dark came down and the birds grew still, 
Tunefully hummed in an undertone, 

While the crickets chirped 'neath the windowsill. 

She knew why the twinkling stars were sewn, 
To button the Evening's garments fast, 

For she had seen how the Wind had blown 

And snatched their folds as he rudely passed. 

The shadows came with their footsteps soft; 

And the baby smiled with a new delight, 
As down from the silver orb aloft 

Was stretched a ladder of moonbeams bright. 

"0, mama, look at the pretty moon!" 

She cried as it rose in the spangled sky; 

But a lazy cloud came over, soon, 

And veiled the light while it drifted by. 

And mama saw just a little maid, 

With sad, wet eyes and a quivering chin, 
"Oh, dear!" — she sobbed — "it was bad, I'm 'fraid, 
For — the Lord's — been — an' tooken' it in!" 

94 



TERRY'S REPENTANCE, 

J> 

Katie flitted cheerily around in her small, bright kit- 
chen, now and then casting a mildly curious glance at 
me. She had taken my dripping umbrella and mackin- 
tosh when I entered, and with her old-time solicitude for 
my comfort, had gone down on her knees to whisk off 
my rubbers and to see for herself whether or not the 
hem of my skirt was forlornly draggled and wet. 

"You do be so careless, you know, mum; an' widout 
me to be lookin' afther you — " 

Katie finished with a look far more eloquent than 
words and expressing her full appreciation of the great 
loss I sustained when she and Terrence suspended hos- 
tilities long enough to be married and go to home-making 
for themselves. 

I did miss her, my loyal-hearted, loving little Irish 
girl ! And I felt a kind of proprietary interest in the tiny 
three-room flat and liked to slip into its shelter when 
November chills penetrated to my heart; for Katie was 
always a tonic to mind and spirit and a sure dispeller of 
blues, and Terry was a handsome, big-hearted fellow, with 
all the virtues of his race and enough of other qualities 

95 



$6 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 




sJ to keep him from being lop-sided. 
His chief accomplishment was re- 
pentance and Katie was his un- 
wearying confessor. 

"The trials I do be havin'wid 
I Terry, mum," said Katie, stopping 
in her work and placing one small, 
red hand upon her hip and looking 
at me with the dimple in her cheek held sternly in 
check, "'11 be the death iv me, the saints bless him! 
Only a wake ago me bread war that white an' sweet it ud 
make yer mouth wather; an' knowin' the poor service ye 
have now (with a compassionate sigh), I made bould to 
sind yez a small loaf fur yer brekquest when Terry was 
going by yer dure to his work. Well, pwhat did he ao 
but lave it on the cable-car an' go on as continted as 
ye plaze widout it, niver onct givin' it a thought until I 
axed him at night war ye plazed. Ah, poor bye, he was 
that repintant he'd a made yer heart ache !" 

Katie began laying the table in the clean little room 
and flitted back and forth as she talked. 

"Och, the letters and the papers that I give him 
to put in the mail ! Doesn't he carry them around for 



terry's repentance. 97 

weeks like any gintleman, an' when I do be thinkin' me 
poor ould mother is dead, an' me friends have all for- 
saken me, Terry finds the letters tucked away com- 
fortable an' quiet in his pockets; an' he is so repint- 
int, I hev niver a word of blame fer him. An' no more 
cud you hev, mum, cud ye know the swate ways iv him." 

There was a knock at the kitchen door and a small, 
barefooted boy entered with a pitcher brimming with 
milk. He stumbled awkwardly, and down it fell, with 
a crash, breaking the pitcher and dashing and spattering 
the white fluid over the floor and stove. Katie swooped 
down like a goddess through the milky way, and, instead 
of a scolding, gave the boy a seraphic smile and a huge 
round cooky. 

"You are very forgiving, Katie," I said, looking at 
the grease covered floor. 

"Sure, mum," she said, "it's Terry that kapes me in 
practice !" 

"D'ye moind how the dear b'y swore off the drink 
last month ? To be sure he begun agin the same day, 
but his will is that strong he can stop any toime as aisy 
as that!" And Katie tried to snap two round : plump 
little fingers. 



98 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

"But would ye belave it, mum, last night whin he 
had smoked up ivery bit iv terbacca in the house he 
looked at me airnest-like an' sez he, a shakin' his 
han'some head: 'Katie,' sez he, 'I am goin' to stop the 
drink an' the terbacca, too, until we have a hundred 
dollars in the savin's bank. I've been doin' wrong, Katie, 
an' the money I've spint would buy a snug place of 
our own an' dress ye warm an' tidy as a lady, wid a 
foine bunnit for yer pretty head. Cah, I've done wid it!' 
he sez. An' I war that glad I cried for joy!" 

"Do you think he will keep his word, Katie?" I 
asked, a little reluctant to chill her glowing faith with 
even a hint of my doubt. 

"Will he kape it?" she replied, her rosy face rad- 
iant with trustfulness. "Of coorse he'll kape it!" 

"I thought — that is — I remembered," I began apolo- 
getically, "that his memory has failed before now in 
regard to promises that he has made you." 

The little wife was at once on the defensive. 

"Ah, sure, mum," she said, "it isn't his memory at 
all, at all, it's just his forgettery phat makes the trouble ! 
But he'll be true to his word, mum, jist ye moind him. 
Ah, ye should hev seen the two meltin' eyes whin he 



TERRY'S REPENTANCE. 



99 



1,1 





ill 



promised me ! Niver a poipe or a 
^lass of beer agin till he's saved the 
money, God bless him ! I think I 
hear his stip on the stair this blessed 
minit. Arrah, Teddy dear — Och! bad 
luck till ye, Terrence McGuire !" 

Terry came in unabashed and 
debonair. His bonnie face was 
wreathed with smoke rolling up 
from the cigar held between his strong, white teeth. 
Katie snatched his bright tin dinner pail from his 
hand and ran into the pantry with it. Womanlike, she 
wished to keep from her friend the full measure of his 
faithlessness and on her face was all the shame when he 
called cheerfully: 

"I say, Katie, why did ye run off wid the beer?" 

"Your wife has just been telling me how you had 
promised to stop drinking and smoking, Terry. I should 
not be surprised if she felt a little sorrowful and disap- 
pointed in you," I said. 

"Pah, Katie, me darlint," he said, walking over to 
where she sat in a disconsolate little heap, rocking her- 
self mournfully; and smoothing her dark curls with his big, 



IOO IF TAM SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

tender hand. "Don't ye be afther moindin' a little thing 
like that. Sure I'll quit the drink an' all the minit ye 
ax me to, for good. Dhry yer pretty eyes, thin, darlint, 
an' I'll niver bring sorrow til thim agin." 

He kissed her drooping mouth and her doubtful face 
back into smiling trustfulness. 

"Ah, mum," said Katie with a contented sigh as I 
said good-night, "Terry is so repintint !" And I went 
down the stairs and into the rain-swept street, meditating 
upon the ways of women. 




MR. BROWN. 

Us children snicker when we hear 

What big folks say of Mr. Brown; 
They think he is the proudest man, 

An' smartest, too, in all the town, 
But if they'd see him here with us 

I bet you they would have to laugh; 
'Cause we're a whole menagerie 

An' he's the awful tall giraffe. 

He has us with him in his room, 

That's filled with books an' funny things, 
Like ladies' heads, cut off an' hung 

Against the wall; an' eagles' wings; 
An' hor'ble idols from a place 

Where heathens worship gods of stone; 
An' skelingtons an' skulls — I guess 

You wouldn't catch us there alone ! 

Then Mr. Brown (when we're up there 
He tells us we can call him "Gus") 

Gets down upon his hands and knees 
An' plays he's a rhinoceros. 
101 



102 IF TAM SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

My, but we're scared ! We run an' squeal, 
Until he pulls us down, kerchug, 

Into the surgin' River Nile — 
That's what he calls the biggest rug. 

An' he can make the bestest sounds; 

Jes' like a dog or cat; an' crow 
Like banty in the chicken yard; 

Sometime he'll tell me how, I know. 
An' he thinks cake an' jam an' sweets 

Are jes' the things that children need 
To make 'em grow; an' marmalade 

Is very good for us, indeed. 

He hasn't any little boy; 

An' he is awful lonesome, too. 
I 'spect that if we wasn't here 

He wouldn't know jes' what to do. 
I feel so sorry that I pray 

The Lord to send the angels down 
To take my pa and ma away 

So I can live with Mr. Brown. 




'It was early dawn 
veil from sky to earth. 



4 ' - ^A/ - 

ancrthe gray rrflst hung like a 
All at once a ray of light shot 
upward from the east, and touched with silver, brilliant as 
the shield of Hippias, a jutting cloud high up against the 
sky. . A huge white shape grew slowly from the gloom, 
till, jMefrced by the light that deepened with each breath, 
the veil of mist broke into tremulous billows of amethyst, 
that surged around the mountain's base and slowly swept 
up over its emerald sides and snowy crest until It rested, 
like the halo of a saint, above the still, white grandeur of 
its brow. And all the heaven-touched, eternal hills, flinging 
their limpid waterfalls WVjJ shattered rainbows from high 
cock to rock, burst in th|s whiteness of their glory Into 
fiigjit— and/it was day.j§- / 



THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 

With deepening shadows falls the Orient eve ; 

Broidered with stars of scintillating ray, 
Her ebon banner doth the night unsheathe. 

To flaunt her triumph o'er the vanquished day. 

In streets where trade and traffic have their sway, 
There now begin to glimmer, near and far, 

The lamps and torches, that the bickering may 
Go on in booths and many-stalled bazaar. 

Within the little workshop — known to all 
As Rabbi Joseph's (goodly man and true) — 

O'er the tool-strewn work-bench near the wall, 
A lad bends low his given task to do. 

He pauses oft — communing with the night — 
And pierces, with a listening look, the skies ; 

Then as he turns the swinging lamp to light, 
Its ray reveals the glory of his eyes. 

How fair he is ! What glory hath in store 
The future for him? Dreams he not of fame? 
104 



THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 105 

His father David — shepherd lad of yore — 
Proud Israel's loved and greatest king became ! 

And was there on the shepherd's comely brow 
Aught of the majesty, or grace the more? 

He stretches wide his arms (so weary now ! ) 
The cramped and toil-worn muscles to restore. 

And as he stands with arms outstretched, and tall, 
His shadow doth his anguished gaze engross ; 

For on the floor the lamplight makes to fall 
The shape and semblance of the awful Cross. 

Before him ever ! Oh, that wondrous face, 
The human anguish crown'd with lov 2 Divine ! 

Earth's greatest limners catch the earthly grace, 
Then, all unsatisfied, the task resign. 

But in the inner temple of the soul — 

Behind the sombre folds of doubt and sin — 

Bearing His blood, the veil we may unroll 
And find His gracious presence there, within ! 



OLD "97." 

Every day at just such an hour the old man entered 
the yards and walked slowly up and down among the 
engines, lingering longest around old "97," the huge, high- 
smoke-stacked locomotive, still en duty, but soon to be 
retired and devoted to a most inglorious end by means 
of a sham collision. 

A few of the blue-jeaned heroes around the depot 
objected more or less vigorously to the presence of 
the stranger, for it is a dangerous place for the nimble 
and quick-eyed, and the old man was half blind and his 
ears were closed to even the shrill whistle of the trains. 
But some of the men remembered that the bent and 
feeble veteran was an old engineer, the oldest on the 
road, and "97" had been for years dearer to him than 
wife, or child, or friend. 

Al Reece had kept his post until five years before, 
carefully concealing from the argus-eyed inspectors the 
fact of his partial blindness and infirmity. He had been 
an engineer for fifty years. It is a matter of history that 
he took the first train over the road; and "97" was his 
second love. The first he had gone over a bridge with 

106 



OLD "97. 107 

after feeling her heartbeats quiver through his own breast 
and feeling her response to his every desire for twenty 
years. He carried a scar on his head for a long 
time and the heart wound never entirely healed, although 
the railroad company framed resolutions on what they 
called his heroism and gave him a brand new engine, 
right out of the shops. Al called her the "Jewel," after 
the other one, for he was a young fellow then, not above 
a little romancing; but later the company changed all the 
names to numbers and she became known as the 
"97." 

It's a strange thing how a man gets to love a 
creature of iron and steel. There wasn't an engine along 
the division kept in better shape than "97." New styles 
were adopted, and all the late inventions came in, but 
the "old girl" kept her place, and Al Reece kept her in 
it by his care. 

The old-fashioned brass mountings were as bright 
as the day they were fitted on, and there wasn't a speck 
or a bit of dust about her anywhere. 

But as time passed on the men began to look half 
pityingly at the old engineer and whisper that perhaps 
he would have to be retired before "97" was called in. 



108 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

"Why, he can't see a foot in front of him," said 
one of the young fellows, "and it's a mighty risk to let 
a blind man run an engine!" 

The same thought was moving the directors, for 
they could no longer ignore the fact of his condition. 
But those who believe corporations have no souls might 
have learned much if they had witnessed the scene in the 
superintendent's office when old Al Reece was pensioned 
and discharged. 

The news had been broken to him by a man who 
looked at the bowed figure with manly tears and at the 
conclusion of the interview had taken the toil-worn hand, 
that had held the lever for so many years, in his own 
as a son might have done. 

The old engineer lifted his eyes, full of the piteous 
bok the blind have, to his face. 

"My trip's about over, anyway," he said, "an' I did 
want to slow up at the terminal on old '97.' But it's 
all right, sir, it's all right. I might have had some acci- 
dent on account of my eyes, an' have carried on the 
folks that wan't ready for the last station. But I don't 
believe I would. I really didn't need to see with her. 



OLD "97. IO9 

She was eyes for me; and she had too much sense to 
go wrong. 

"There's jest one favor I want to ask, sir: Have 
'em let me through the gates whenever she's in from 
her trips. It'll be a comfort to us both, sir." 

For a long time, the engine, under a strong, young 
hand, kept her regular runs. But she got fractious and 
cranky, and was finally used only in the yards. Old Al 
never missed his visit to her, though he grew feebler all 
the time, and seemed to mourn over her changed and 
neglected appearance. 

One day as he leaned against her dull side, patting 
her and talking of the days they had passed together, a 
young switchman, new in the yards and ignorant, stepped 
up to him. 

'This is the last day for old '97,'" he called into 
the dull ears. "Some showmen have bought her, an' 
they're going to take her down on the siding an' run her 
off the upper bridge. Two trainloads comin' from Newton 
to see it. And there'll be fireworks and a great sight." 

The old man put his hand up to his throat and 
leaned more heavily against the condemned engine. The 
young fellow continued: 



110 IF TAM O SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

"Better be here. It'll be a big show. She'll have 
steam up an' be sent wild. Starts at 9 if it's pretty 
dark." 

He went whistling away to set the switch for the 8 
o'clock flyer, and the old engineer was left alone. But 
a flush was on the furrowed face, and the dim eyes 
burned with a strange fire. 

"She's ready, now," said the director an hour later 
to a group of trainmen, who had been stoking up the 
old engine, and hanging her sides with gayly covered 
banners. "This is her last trip, let her go !" 

He threw the throttle wide, and as the engine 
bounded with a mighty leap toward the grade's incline 
leaped onto the ground. A great crowd gathered along 
the siding greeted the wild engine with a cheer, which 
speedily turned into a yell of horror; for as the panting 
thing madly rushed toward the bridge they saw a figure 
on the right-hand seat; and as the glow from the furnace 
lighted the cab with its red splendor it shone upon the 
fixed, white face of the old engineer, going to his death 
with "97" 



THE DOUR MGHT. 

J» 
Lift high the cup- — it is brimming o'er — 

Life's measure is shaken together; 
Though your hand is cold and your heart is sore, 

Drink, friend, to the changeful weather. 
For Hope returns and to-day's frown chill 

Will melt in the smile of another, 
And there's never a night so ill, so ill, 

But comes to an end, my brother. 

Sits Poverty at your hearthstone now, 

Sole guest at your frugal dinner? 
There's many a one far worse, I trow, 

To elbow than that wan sinner. 
Better a dinner of herbs with him 

Than a banquet with Pride as neighbor; 
For he's learned to laugh with his jolly kin, 

The knights of the brush and faber. 

It's a merry world, tho' the lights burn low 
And the embers darken and smoulder; 

Tho' the night creeps down, and the north winds blow, 
And the heart grows sadder and older. 
in 



112 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

The skies to-day may be drear and chill, 
But they'll melt into smiles some other, 

And there's never a night too dour and ill 
To meet with the dawn, my brother. 




WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES. 

I bet, if I was Santa Claus, 

I wouldn't have to be so sure 
That all the boys I come across 

Was awful good er awful poor. 
I'd bring 'em presents jes' the same, 

An' say : " Oh, that's all right, my son V* 
If they ducked down their heads with shame 

When Christmas come. 

They wouldn't ketch me sneakin' 'round 

To try an' see what I could hear, 
'Cause some folks when they hear a sound 

Think it's a swear when it's jes' " dear ! " 
An' if a feller's pa was rich, 

He needn't get the sword an' gun, 
'Cause there'd be sure to be some hitch 

When Christmas come. 

I was so mad at ole St. Nick 

Last year I couldn't treat him right ! 

If I was him when folks is sick 
I'd take 'em things on Christmas night. 
H3 



1 14 IF TAM O SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

Ted Jones's little sister said 

She heard his bells " ting-tum-a-lum " — 
But he jes' drove right on ahead 

When Christmas come. 

Their ma -was sick. An* my ! she cried 

When all their stockin's hung up there. 
Ted told me how she tried to hide 

Her tears in Minnie's yellow hair. 
" Oh, yes, he'll come ! We've all been good ! " 

He said, an' kissed her hand in fun. 
But that old chump misunderstood, 

An' didn't come ! 

I bet if I was Santa Claus 

I'd tend to things myself, an' see 
That on that night I was the boss, 

An' children should be left to me. 
I wouldn't have no tattle-tales 

A tellin' things what boys had done, 
But I'd give presents, bales an' bales — 

When Christmas come ! 



WHEN THE BAND PLAYED, 

Up the street marched the village band, resplendent 
in uniforms of blue and gold and followed by the usual 
crowd of boys with steps all lengthened for the martial 
tread. 

"0, Columbia, the gem of the ocean, 
The home of the brave and the free." 

The stirring strains rang on the air and thrilled the 
hearts of old and young, quickening their feet and setting 
them in time. 

Even the old blind man resting by 
the wayside lifted his head and listened 
to the sounds. At first they only touched 
his soul with faint, confused remem- 
brances; then the music seemed to bear 
him back to the familiar scenes he once 
had known. Now he seems to see his 
mother on the vine-clad porch, shading 
her eyes with her hand, and watching 
him as he goes A 
down the long 
hill toward the 





Il6 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

wooded stretch, where deep shadows waver across the 
yellow road, and beyond which he can hear the klingle- 
klangle of the cowbells from the meadow just below 
the brook. 

October stands in those familiar paths; he feels her 
spicy breath full in his face, as the whirling, iris-tinted 
leaves shower around him and roguish squirrels scurry 
daringly along the way. He is a boy again. But hark! 

"0, say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
gleaming." 

Ah! now he sees his father with that strange, set 
look upon his face, as he came to him in the twilight of 
a summer day, and said, a little tremulously, but with 
a new thrill in his voice: "My boy, our country needs 
us — are you ready?" 

Ready ? Ah ! was he not ? 

He feels again the thrill and glow of those days of 
preparation, and then! Oh, if he could have known that 
the fair head of the girl he loved would never rest upon 
his breast again; if he could have known that kiss was the 
last her sweet lips would ever give him in this world ! 



WHEN THE BAND PLAYED. 



117 




His gray head dropped still lower on his 
breast, and over the dust and grime on his fur- 
rowed cheeks rolled the slow tears. The music 
» continued, but now the air was changed, and 
before the sightless eyeballs of the old man the 
f notes flashed up and down like balls of fire: 

"Yes, we'll rally 'round the flag, boys, 
We'll rally once again, shouting the battle 
cry of freedom." 

Again he feels the shock and long, reverberating 
roar of battle. Robert, his brother, bears the stars and 
stripes. He sees them floating now above the blue, on- 
moving ranks. 

Huzza ! 

On comes the storm of shot and shell; the minies 
scream a death song as they pass, and the dense smoke 
iaiis like a flame-fringed pall. 

His comrade on the left drops out of sight; he was 
his teiit mate and his lifelong friend; no matter. For- 
ward ! He leaps aside to dodge a circling shell; a warm 
spray showers on his cheek and hand — the life-blood of 
his comrade on the right; — still, Forward! The lines are 



Il8 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 




closing, are together now. A trooper's saber 
cuts his brother down, a gray clad arm 
grasps for the falling flag. There is a shot, 
a rain of blows, a deadly, hate-filled con- 
flict, hand to hand, and then a blinding, 
J^ torturous flash that hides the flag forever 
W from his sight — but it is saved! Yes — 



"Down with the traitor 
And up with the stars I" 

The old man had risen to his feet and stood erect 
and soldier-like until the band passed by. He was poor, 
blind and helpless, but now no longer felt forgotten and 
alone. He settled down again, and soon the dews of 
evening cooled his brow, and slowly, up above, unfurled 
the starry banner of the firmament. 

The boys had broken ranks and hurried to 
their room; and as one young fellow untied the 
tasseled bugle from his arm he raised it to his 
lips to sound tattoo — 

"Blow out your lights, you lazy bummers, 
Blow out your lights and go to bed." 

The well-known strains rang clear, and as 




WHEN THE BAND PLAYED. II9 

the old man heard the notes his patient face shone 
with a great content. "The boys are all in camp," he 
murmured, "and soon we'll all be going home — going 
home." 

He laid his hands across his loyal heart and turned 
his face, a patriot's countersign, up toward the watchful 
sentinels of night. And in the morning, when some passer- 
by tried to awaken him, with kindly touch, he found that 
he had answered to the heavenly reveille. 




OLD FOLKS HEAR THE CITY CHOIR. 

Father an' me are gettin' old; 

We ain't used to the way 
Of goin' to hear the singin', 'stead 

Of preachin', Sabbath Day. 

So when we was with Andrew's folks, 
An' Sunday mornin' come, 

We s'posed we'd hear the word an' jine 
In the sweet hymns they sung. 

An' when we stood in that dim aisle, 
'Neath arched an' fluted stone, 

A ray of light touched father's hair 
An' his worn features shone. 

The organ's grand an' solemn tone 
Jest sounded like a prayer, 

An' when it stopped I seemed to feel 
Wings beatin' through the air. 

"The prodigal," the preacher said, 

"Of sinnin' weary grown, 
Has left the swine an' now has turned 

His face toward nis home." 

I2C 



OLD FOLKS HEAR THE CITY CHOIR. 121 

Then all at once the choir riz. 

It almost made me laugh 
To hear that young soprany shriek: 

''Bring in the fatted calf!" 

"Bring in the fatted calf, the calf," 

Implored the alto low, 
An' all the rest jined in, as if 

They couldn't let it go. 

The tenor's pleadin' touched my heart; 

A critter'd been a stone 
Not to have come a friskin' in 

In answer to that tone. 

Waal, pa, he sot with eyebrows bent, 
Like bushes touched with snow 

A-growin' round some sheeny lake, 
Half hidin' its blue glow. 

But when the bass had started in 

A callin' fur that calf, 
He jist reached fur his handkerchief 

To cover up a laugh. 



122 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

"Bring in the fatted, fatted calf," 
Bellow'd the base; an' stars ! 

Our grandson, John, called (half asleep): 
"Grandpa, let down the bars \" 



THE PRISON GARDENER. 
& 

"I let him putter around among the flowers some," 
said the warden, with a good-humored look toward the 
conservatory, where the old man was at work. "It occu- 
pies his mind and he doesn't do the plants any harm. 
He used to be a gardener, and a good one, too, I take 
it, by the handiness he shows in pruning and transplant- 
ing now. 

"Oh, yes, he's a criminal, sure enough. He's been 
here for fourteen years, but as he has made time 
by good behavior — poor old fellow, he's never been a 
minute's trouble — his term will expire In a few months. 
He was sentenced for twenty-one 
years." 

I looked through the windows 
of the plant-house and saw the 
convict in his stripes bending over 
a rose, a look of tenderness, such 
as a mother gives a little child, 
upon his face. 

The warden was looking at 
him too. 

123 

- 1§! 




124 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

"Who would believe that man could be a mur- 
derer?" I said. "I thought the love of flowers was a 
religion strong for the right as well as for the beautiful." 

"Yes, and to make the illustration more striking, 
the flowers made him a murderer. He was a harmless, 
sober, industrious citizen, mild in his ways and benevolent, 
as far as his means would allow, to all he came in 
contact with. 

"One day a mischievous boy trampled down a bed 
of violets and roused the old man to perfect fury. He 
warned the lad, alternately begging and threatening him 
with the law, but the boy was impudent and defied him. 

"A white rose of choice variety had just begun to 
blossom, and the little fellow turned his attention to it, 
destroying buds and all. The old man's light hoe 
was leaning against the fence. He snatched it up— and 
in a minute the boy was dying among the trampled 
violets. 

"I think the poor old fellow's mind has given away 
a little. He wanders at times, and sometimes my eyes 
get dim when I look at him, although I've been an officer 
in this state prison for more than twenty years, and am 
pretty well hardened and seasoned to such things." 



THE PRISON GARDENER. 12 5 

I looked from the rugged features of the warden, 
firm of mouth and kind of eye, to the pale face with its 
silver hair and sad, dim eyes, still bending lovingly over 
the flowers in the conservatory. I am not a woman to 
carry dainties to please the epicurean tastes of burglars, 
or to comfort esthetic murderers with bouquets, but I 
wanted to talk with this man. 

"May I speak to him, or is it against your rules?" 
I asked. 

"Well, we don't encourage much visiting, but you 
can go in and talk to him a little while." 

The man lifted his eyes and looked at me as I 
pushed aside the vines that hung over the arching door 
of the greenhouse and made my way to his side, bowing 
slightly to my greeting. He was visibly embarrassed, and 
a dazed, pitiful expression troubled his eyes. 

"How beautiful that lily is!" I exclaimed. "Can 
you tell me the name of it?" 

He named the lovely thing, and then half shyly 
pointed out another of the same family, but of different 
coloring, and lost his diffidence in talking of the subject 
so dear to his heart. 

"I suppose there are some fine gardens in Chicago 



126 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

now?" he said, with a question in his voice. "Fine gar- 
dens and greenhouses. I heard there was a new one at 
Lincoln Park. The flowers ought to be looking well now; 
an' later — a little later — the chrysanthemums '11 be here. 
I shouldn't wonder if I would see the chrysanthemums, 
for I shall get out of here the last of October, if things 
go well; but do you think" — his voice grew indescribably 
wistful — "do you think there'll be any roses left?" 

I answered him hopefully. 

"Well, mebbe there will, mebbe there will," he replied. 
"I want to see their faces first of all. No one will know 
me but the roses. 

"Oh, yes, I have had them here; but they don't 
thrive in prison air, and I am, some way, hurt to have 
them brought in from outside. Did you say they would 
be blooming in Lincoln Park in October? Ah, thank 
ye, kindly; that quite heartens me ! 

"Fourteen years is a long time, miss, but I guess 
the time goes on about as it does anywhere, though I 
'spose you don't think so. 

"Have I suffered? Well, not much, except remorse, 
miss; and that is harder than aught else. I killed a little 
lad that pestered me and abused the flowers. God knows 



THE PRISON GARDENER. 1 27 

I didn't mean to, an' I don't even know how it was done. 
But there's no use talkin' of it now. I was willin' to die 
for what I had done, but they put me here instead, an' 
I was shut up between these walls when they had the 
World's Fair!" 

His voice was quivering and broken with excitement, 
and I knew that something moved him mightily. He 
stopped caressing the flowers and leaned against the door 
casing, a deep flush rising to his forehead. 

"Miss, if I could have escaped then I would, if I'd 
died for it; an' I'd walked all the way there, an' I'd found 
that wooded island they tell about, an' the man that kept 
it. Then I'd been willin' to come back!" 

"But there were other things at the Fair besides 
the flowers " 

"Not for me, miss; not for me." 

"And there were interesting people from all over 
the world, princes and statesmen and " 

"Excuse me, but did you ever see a man working 
among his flowers by the name of " 

"Uncle John Thorpe?" 

He had hesitated a little and I spoke the name for the 
sole joy of speaking it. He clasped his hands and leaned 



128 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

toward me, a new light of hope and eagerness in his 
eyes. 

"That's the man! That's the man!" he exclaimed, 
"An' when I get out of here I'm goin' straight to him, 
an' I'm goin' to beg him to let a poor old prison bird 
rest in his garden. Do you b'lieve he'll let me work for 
him, at little odd jobs, until he sees the flowers know 
me an' will let me tend 'em?" 

His tones were full of eagerness, and his old hands 
shook tremulously. And I — without leave and yet with- 
out one quiver of uncertainty — answered heartily and 
positively: 

"Yes!" 

And so, when October comes, Uncle John Thorpe, 
and you see an old man, with clean-shaven face and 
close-cut hair, with cheap new garments and an air of 
great haste and pitiful wistfulness and uncertainty coming 
your way, you are to open the gate of your garden and 
let him in. 



TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow, I had said through the long night, 
To-morrow, I shall have my heart's delight, 
And all the wrong of yesterday made right. 

And then from out my casement, sweet and clear, 
A bird's first waking notes came to my ear, 
And the fair maid of many hopes drew near. 

One moment from the curtains of the night 
I saw her bent to touch the East with light, 
Then vanish like a phantom from my sight. 

And lo ! at once the shadows, dull and gray, 
The rosy arms of Morning flung away. 
And at my door, all giftless, was To-day. 



129 



AT EVENTIDE, 

Sometimes the day drags heavily along; 

The waves of tumult in the busy street 

Strike on my heart with soulless, ceaseless beat, 

And I can frame no song. 

Then comes the eventide; and in a place 

Upon whose lintel I have v/ritten "Home" 
I rest as one love-crowned on a throne, 

Forgetting Sorrow's face. 

A little child, a cuddly, baby thing, 

Close to my breast from smiling dreams awakes. 

Dear God! What balm to ease a heart that aches 
This motherhood doth bring ! 

My eyes grow dim for sorrows — not mine own, 
But for the griefs my sister women bear 
Who have no baby eyes to daunt despair, 

No child-love to atone. 



130 



His 



ISHMAEL, THE EXILE. 

"I am a wanderer; call me ishmael', he said, 
and father, resting his kindly eyes upon the dark, 
unhappy face, held out a welcoming hand and led 
the stranger in. He had found him leaning against 
a gray column of the wide piazza when he opened 
■he door; a tall, weird figure in tattered, dust-cov- 
ered garments, and with bare and bleeding feet, 
hair, matted and unkempt, hung like a cowl sprinkled 
with ashes over his deep-set, smouldering eyes and half 
concealed the hole, where a bullet might have lain, above 
his brow. He started at the creaking of the hinges and 
straightened his weary form into a dignified posture. 

"Why do you open your door?" he questioned, and 
the rags of his sleeve fluttered with an imperious gesture. 
"I did not knock. I only sought a few moments rest in 
the shade before pressing on. Does the city lie to the 
westward?" 

He spoke with feverish anxiety, and his slight frame 
trembled as with an ague. Father, with a comprehending 
glance into his face, answered gently: 

"The knock was at my breast. 1 knew that some 
131 




132 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

one waited for the cup of cold water that I had to give. 
Come in. Rest and refresh yourself." 

"But the city, the city?" The traveler's eyes were 
wild with delirium. Father, dear heart, in his tender 
piety, misunderstood his meaning. He lifted his eyes to 
the Olympian hills, royal in the purple and gold of sunset, 
and said solemnly: 

"The city is just beyond." 

The man looked at him anxiously, hesitated, passed 
his hand wearily across his forehead and fell fainting upon 
the white sanded floor of the little room; entering, un- 
knowing and unknown, the home where fate had kept a 
place for him, and where he was to remain for many 
years; becoming, as time passed, as much a source of 
affectionate pride as is the possession of some rare vol- 
ume illuminated by a hand that centuries ago returned 
to dust and written in a long-forgotten tongue. We who 
became his friends, his family, knew nothing of his life 
beyond the chapter which began at our own door. In the 
long days of illness which followed his arrival, his piteous 
ravings were in a language unfamiliar to us all, and what 
father learned while watching over him, when life and 
death were struggling for the mastery, he never told. 



ISHMAEL, THE EXILE. 



133 



"A man's life is his own," he said to us when we 
were curious to learn more of our fireside sharer: "who 
he was before he came to us we have no right to ques- 
tion. We are concerned only in what he is to-day. We 
have decided that: He is our friend." 

We were not always quite satisfied, it is true, but 
that was father's way and we never thought of disputing 
him or choosing another; and now, after many years, I 
know that he was right, quite right. 

"Ishmael", as he insisted on being called, came 
slowly out of the valley of the shadow of death and took 
his place, as naturally as though it had been planned, 
among us. We lived in a sparsely settled district of that 
glorious land "where rolls the Oregon", and school facili- 
ties were not what mother wished for her little flock. 
Father soon discovered that Ishmael' s hand had touched 
the topmost branches of the tree of 
knowledge and was well fitted to 
bend some lower boughs within 
our reach. We also observed that 
his manners, courtly and dignified 
as they were, had lost the imperi- 
ousness which offended us the day J 




134 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 



he stood footsore, wayworn and ragged at our door. He 
had become teacher, guide, philosopher and friend; a per- 
manent member of our household and father's unfailing 
adviser and assistant. Free from all restraint and appre- 
hension, of any kind, he shone in all the beauty of splendid 
manhood, and yet in moments of repose his face would 
move us to tears, so full was it of utter loneliness. 

The Indians of the locality held for him a strong 
interest, which deepened in time into affectionate regard. 
He made a study of their sign language, history and 
traditions, and felt the liveliest sympathy for them in 
their wrongs. One time a tribe from the extreme north- 
western portion of the territory camped in our valley for 
a week or more. There was a subdued excitement evi- 
dent among them, and finally the 
chief, with whom Ishmael had become 
acquainted, told him the reason for it. 
It was an impressive sight to 
- see those two dark, stately figures 
standing face to face; and it must 
have been some hidden chord of 
kindred sorrow that drew them thus 
together. 




ISHMAEL, THE EXILE. 1 35 

The chief said that a number of his braves had 
been for some time along the northern waters of the 
Columbia, and had there discovered a most wonderful 
mirage which they had named the "Silent City." He 
declared that they had been able to distinguish streets, 
spires and buildings with startling distinctness and feared 
that a mighty city had risen in a night upon their own 
lands, and that they should return but to repeat the ex- 
periences which had so often been their own; to find a 
blue line of soldiery between them and their hunting 
grounds, ready to drive them "farther on" at point of 
gleaming bayonets. There was no city in Alaska of the 
beauty and magnitude of the one mirrored in the clouds 
and no one had been able to identify it. 

Ishmael explained the phenomenon as best he could, 
by telling them that objects 10,000 miles distant might 
be transported in reflection as well as those in the imme- 
diate vicinity. The Indians, gifted in the lore of nature far 
beyond our comprehension, finally accepted his hypothesis 
and resumed their former confidence. 

The years went by, and in the latter part of May, 
1889, our family party set out for an extended trip along 
the palisaded Columbia, and up the blue Pacific into 



I36 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 



Alaska; Ishmael, of course, accompanying us. One after- 
noon in early June, as we were riding slowly along over 
the foothills to inspect a rumored Eldorado, we observed 
that a heavy mist was lifting like a silver veil from the 
scarred face of the great glacier and moving slowly up 
toward the perfect sky. Suddenly a ray of light, brilliant 
and scintillating as the wand of some fabled geni, swept 
over it and left a wonderful mirage in the air. A city 
divided by a river and built with palaces, cathedrals, great 
public squares and gardens was photographed upon the 
clouds, presenting to our astonished gaze the streets, 
the architectural beauty, the very life of the strange 



<~£ 




metropolis in exact verisimilitude. 
Ishmael was walking on a little 
in advance of us, one arm thrown 
over the neck of his burro and the 



V other holding the folds of the gay 
Navajo blanket that hung like the 
mantle of a Roman senator over 
his shoulder. His head was bowed 
in thought and he did not share 
the illusion until attracted by our 
noisy delight. At a sign from one 
of us he lifted his eyes. For a 



m* 



ISHMAEL, THE EXILE. 



137 




moment he wavered as though 
in a dream, and then a light, 
vivid as the transforming scepter in 
the sky, flashed over his face. He gave a strong shout, 
ringing and exultant. 

"St. Petersburg!" he cried. "St. Petersburg, my love! 
I could not go back to you but you have come to me." 

He stretched his arms toward the vision in the clouds 
and murmured low, inarticulate words of joy and tender- 
ness, his face working with intense emotion. He turned 
to my father: 

"I am not Ishmael, but John," he said. "Behold a 
new apocalypse — St. Petersburg! St. Petersburg!" 

He beat his hands against his breast as if to still the 
heart leaping against its prison walls, and, turning, ran a 
few steps in the direction of the fast vanishing 
towers and cathedrals above the glacier heights; 
then, with uplifted arms, fell face downward 
upon the mountain path as he had fallen „ 
upon the floor of our little room so many 
years before. 

We bent over him frantic with grief 
as father laid his hand upon his heart 




138 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

and pulse and faltered: "He is dead." 

"Who was he?" we cried. "Tell us because we 
loved him; tell us his name !" 

Father raised the splendid head up to his breast 
and his manly tears fell fast as he passed a caressing 
hand over the furrow of the bullet in the wide white 
brow. 

"He was a Russian and an exile," he said at last. 
"But his secret we will leave with him in the strong 
fortress of these northern hills, beneath the phantom of 
the city for whose sake he gave his all." 




TEMPEST. 

Lead me, Father, for the way grows steep; 

The briers catch my garments, and my feet 
Are torn by rocks that hide beneath the sand; 

Hold fast my hand! 

I cannot walk alone: The storm in might 

Bursts round my path and fills me with affright; 

I feel the trembling of the earthquake shock — 
Be Thou my rock ! 

I see thy face, my Saviour, through the night, 
And lift my shaken soul to Thine own sight; 

And thus abide till Thou the storm shall still; 
And fear no ill. 



139 



A WEATHER PROPHET. 

Ole Unc' Woodchuck jes' look wise 
An' whiff de smoke fum out his eyes. 

"'Fessor," said Br'er Rabbit, den, 
"When'll spring be yere again! 

"Dar's some rumors in de town 
Dat she's been a-sneakin' roun'." 

Ole Unc' Woodchuck jes' look wise 
An' whiff de smoke fum out his eyes. 

"'Fessor," said Br'er Jack, perlite, 
"Folks dey tink yoh knows a sight. 

"Yoh's a wedder prophet, shore, 
Wen yoh shadder's at de doah. 

"Is spring comin'?" Fro de smoke 
Ole Unc' Woodchuck looked and spoke: 

'Yes, I reckon she'll be heah, 
Like she comes 'bout ev'ry yeah." 

"Sakes alive!" Br'er Rabbit said. 
"But Unc' Woodchuck's got a head!" 
140 



WHITE ORGANDY. 

Even the very superior young man who conde- 
scended to show goods at the muslin counter did not 
seem inclined to snub the old gentleman after his first 
whispered confidence. Indeed, a fellow clerk looked at 
him in open amazement when he promptly acceded to the 
customer's request without waiting to hear the end of 
a story. 

"Yes, sir," he said, "We carry a full line of thin 
white materials for graduating dresses. Here is some 
India linen, if you don't want it too thin ; and here are 
mull and dotted Swiss." 

He ran his hand under a fold of the sheer white 
stuff to show the woven fineness. 

The old man fingered the snowy widths with his 
rough brown fingers, and looked from one bolt to an- 
other hesitatingly. There was a certain eagerness in 
his faded eyes and a nervous twitching of his furrowed 
face. 

"I was looking for something they used to call 
organdy," he said. " Maybe they don't have it now, 
but that's what her mother had at her commencement 

141 



142 IF TAM O SHAXTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

twenty-five years ago. She was my only child, sir. 
She was my only child.'' 

The clerk stopped in his perfunctory assurance in 
regard to the goods to listen, in respectful sympathy, to 
the old man's confidences. 

" I remember during those long afternoons of early 
June my wife sat in the midst of a cloud of this white 
stuff, while she hemmed and ruffled and edged with lace 
the dress Millicent was to wear on her graduating day, 
and it seems but yesterday that we drove along by the 
river road and up to the seminary to attend the exer- 
cises. It was a pretty anxious minute for mother and 
me when the principal announced her piece, but I tell 
you, sir, Millie was good for it ! Why, I never was so 
moved by any oratory — but then, of course, I may have 
been a little partial. But her essay on 'The Future ' — 
why — " 

The clerk pushed the dress goods nearer and said : 
"This is organdy, sir," but the old man paid no at- 
tention. 

"Yes," he continued, "Millie made a great success 
that day ; and mother and I felt well repaid for what 
few sacrifices we had made to send her there. But that 



WHITE ORGANDY. I43 

wasn't the end of her white dress wearing. Before 
another June she wanted a finer one of silk, a wedding 
gown, and when she wore that mother and I took hold 
of each other's hands and held on hard. It wasn't like 
the graduating day happiness to us." 

He looked away, a reminiscent look settling upon 
his mild features. The clerk glanced about, a trifle 
uneasily. 

" Will you have a dress pattern from this, sir? " he 
questioned. 

The old man lifted some folds in his hand and on 
the sheer white surface fell suddenly a glistening tear. 

" The next time she wore white," he said, hurriedly 
and a little brokenly, "we scattered flowers above her 
and laid them in her hands ; and then mother and I took 
hold of hands again — but this time over the little help- 
less fingers of Millie's baby." 

He stopped and pulled himself together with a great 
effort. 

"Mother hoped to be here for her graduation," he 
said, in a tone he attempted to make business-like, "but 
she got homesick for Millie and went away. But she 
told me to get organdy for Bessie's dress, and — " 

"Yes, sir. How many yards? " 



WHEN POLLY SAYS GOOD BYE, 
J* 

It seems to me I never saw the days so swiftly pass 

To make a path for summer o'er the dewy, em'rald 

grass. 
I never knew the sky to hold such clear and tender light 
Or heard the voices of the streams croon softly thro' 

the night. 
But when with half a dozen friends we ride along the 

way — 
And stop at rustic inn to taste of country curds and whey, 
The charm is just as sure to fade — I often wonder why — 
When Polly mounts her bicycle and says : " Good-bye ! " 

The apple trees that, while she staid, held in their 

rugged hands 
Great bunches of the pretty bloom, have dropped them 

on the sands. 
The breeze is cold and hints of rain ; I hope 'twill come 

I'm sure, 
The farmers need it badly for the crops are looking poor, 
'Tis strange how soon the night comes on. The clouds 

are drifting low, 

144 



WHEN POLLY SAYS GOOD BYE. 145 

And if I want to miss the storm I think I'd better go. 
Such sudden changes ! You'll agree, no cloud was in 

the sky — 
Till Polly took her bicycle and said : " Good-bye ! " 

What is it ? Tell me ye who can ; what light of land 

or sea 
Throws golden glamour o'er the place where Polly haps 

to be, 
And makes her orbs so like the skies that you must all 

declare 
That they were right who were the first to locate Heaven 

there. 
And sometimes I have half believed — do you suppose 

it's true — 
Those blue eyes bid me follow when she says her sweet 

adieu : 
" Why anyone with half a glance can see all that," they 

cry, 
"When Polly mounts her bicycle and says: ' Good- 
bye!'" 



A BAGGAGE READING. 
jt 

''Character study is one of the most interesting 
fads we have now," said the purser of the great lake 
propeller as she slowly steamed out of the harbor and 
pointed for the shining blue waters reflecting the skies of 
September. "Physiognomy is one man's craze; phre- 
nology or palmistry another's ; and some tell your char- 
acter to a T by the shape of your teeth or color of your 
hair. But I have a better system than that. When the 
boat sjtarts I generally go below, like the captain of the 
Pinafore, and look over the baggage, and when I go up 
I know just the kind of folks we are carrying — their 
ages, occupations and peculiarities of temperament. 

"You don't believe it? Well, come down with me 
and I'll give you a baggage reading." 

Laughing and protesting, I followed my guide down 
the broad stairs through the dark corridors where the 
luggage was stored. But he was quite grave, and 
seemed to believe the nonsense he was talking. 

"Here/' he said, pointing to a steamer trunk plas- 
tered all over its canvas cover with the records of foreign 

146 



A BAGGAGE READING. 147 

trips, " is the property of a man of the world who has 
traveled extensively — " 

"No very great trick about that reading," I re- 
plied, cynically. " Those red, yellow, and blue tags 
are plain enough. But how do you know it's a man's 
trunk? I think a woman owns it." 

The purser looked grieved. 

"A woman," he said, "would have scrubbed all 
those marks off." 

Poor man ! He didn't know that neat packages of 
those same foreign stamps have been shipped here this 
very season, to decorate the traveling gear of many a 
woman who spent the summer in Podunk. And I did 
not enlighten him. 

" Here is a woman's trunk," he continued, pointing 
to a huge Saratoga, " This belongs to a summer girl 
returning with victorious eagles from the northern re- 
sorts." He straightened his collar and ran his fingers 
through his hair jauntily. "All the fluffy, lacy, be- 
wildering things that completed her conquests are laid 
in there. I can see her in my mind's eye. 'Tall as a 
daughter of the gods and most divinely fair' — ". 



I48 IF TAM O'SHANTER *D HAD A WHEEL. 

"You forget that this is September," I said. "She 
will certainly have a freckled nose. Find an owner for 
this." 

I pointed to a neat, cheap wooden trunk of moderate 
size, securely fastened by a buckled strap. 

" That belongs to a good, respectable house mother 
who travels little, and then on some mission for her 
family. She had this trunk before she was married, and 
it is kept in the attic most of the year. This/' pointing 
to a satchel of shiny leather, " belongs to a farmer ; and 
it has carried many a load of fried chicken, fried cakes, 
and red-cheeked apples to the girls of the family who 
are in town going to school. Here is the bandbox of 
the severe maiden lady, and cheek by jowl with it is the 
sample grip of the festive drummer. Here is the costly 
leather bag of the wealthy old lady. It is full of silver- 
backed brushes, and tucked down in one corner is a little 
pot of rouge. I warrant you she wears a curled wig 
yellow as the golden-rod. 

''This old box, now," he continued, pushing a 
shabby, rope-tied trunk with his foot, "is the property 
of a Norwegian servant girl on her way down from her 
summer's work in one of the big hotels. I'll bet her 



A BAGGAGE READING. I49 

name is Selma Peterson. See here it is scrawled on 
this ragged old tag. These people look out for their 
property, I tell you ! " 

He leaned over and read the name, and then lifted 
a very red face to me. 

" Yes," I said meekly, in my stillest, smallest voice, 
"that is mine." 



JOE, 

Died in the poorhouse ! What ! Not Joe? 
There must be some mistake, I know ! 
Why, boys, he was the lad that clim 
Up, through the Johnnies' biff and bim, 
To snatch the flag that afternoon 
We had to dance to Dixie's tune 

An' our old colonel uster say 
That Joe alone hed saved the day. 
An' since, I've been a-thinkin', sure 
He'd hev a medal for a cure 
For all the cuttin' up he got 
Between the rebel shell and shot. 

He was a soldier, through and through — 

As brave as ever wore the blue 

An J 'fore the war, I ricollect, 

He hed good reason to expect 

His business would be jest as fair 

As any storekeeper's down there. 

150 



JOE. 151 

He took -war fever pretty bad 

Right from the start. But all he had 

Depended on his stay-in' hum — 

An' thet's jes what he'd oughter done ! 

But when Abe called for volunteers — 

Ye couldn't a-held him there with steers ! 

An' fight — good Ian' ! that feller fit 

As if he reely relished it ! 

In ev'ry skittish place we'd go 

Right in the thick of it was Joe. 

An' when he'd yell with that wild vim 

We couldn't help but foller him ! 

The poorhouse, eh? Joe'd ben to-day 
A rich man ef he'd kep' away. 
But when a feller's lost a limb 
Th' band can git away from him ; 
Thet, with a saber stroke or so, 
Is apt to make him kinder slow. 

One time this town was proud enough 

Of turnin' out such hero stuff, 

When he came hum so pale and lame, 



152 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

You'd raise a shout to speak his name, 
An' his old mother cried with joy 
A-talkin' of her soldier boy. 

I reckon it's been thirty year 

Since I was east before ; an' here 

I've ben a-gapin' up and down 

Through all the stylish streets in town 

Expectin' Joe at ev'ry turn, 

With money and good luck to burn ! 

Died in the poorhouse ! — well, I s'pose 

I'll find the place to lay a rose 

Above him ; find the potter's field 

Where the old soldier had to yield. 

An' then I guess I'd better go ; 

Things ain't jest as I thought. Poor Joe ! 



AN EVERY DAY STORY, 

Up many flights of echoing stairs, and then on 
through dark and narrow corridors until I found the 
place I sought. 

"Vill madame enter?" 

No blight of poverty, of age, or care could chill the 
graciousness of the speech or change the native charm 
and courtesy with which the little Frenchwoman bade 
me welcome to her cold, bare room. 

" Madame vill pardon zat I haf not ze vin to 
off are?" 

Her wan, old face, set with its flashing eyes, was 
filled with regret over her seeming lack of hospitality. 
And I — how could I tell her? — had come to wrest from 
her the sad secret of her hunger and bitter, hopeless 
cold and misery, that I might find for her some comfort 
and relief ? Her name headed my list as a worthy 
" case," whose needs would be attended to by the paper 
I represented. 

The tiny room was spotless in its cleanliness. Bright 
pictures were tacked in groups upon the dingy wall, and 

153 



154 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

over in one corner a single candle — the one light in the 
room — burned before a crucifix. The woman bustled 
busily about. Her figure trim in its much-mended cotton 
gown with snowy kerchief and cap. She was too polite 
to question me regarding my errand. Quite probably 
she had already guessed it. 

"I grief much, madame," she said, at last, sitting 
beside me and looking sideways into my face. "Zat, 
monsieur, my husban', es not hare. My Engleesh ess 
ver' emperfact." 

"Where is your husband ? " I questioned with the 
blunt directness my mission made necessary. " Has he 
found work to do ? " 

She turned her innocent old face toward me. 

" Non, madame ; he ess absent for ze few day. Ze 
gendarmes zey escorted him to ze station de poleece." 

"Why, is he in any serious trouble?" I asked, as- 
tonished. "What has he done? He does not drink, 
does he?" 

The toilworn hands were raised in protest. 

" Non, non, madame ! Zat ess empossible ! He 
dreenks nefar so leetle much ! But it vas zis vay : 



AN EVERY DAY STORY. 155 

" It vas ze ver colt day and ze fire ve haf not. 
Francois, he haf for hees violin no strings, so ze music 
zat creeps into ze veins like ze vin and warms ze heart 
vas silent. Francois sit wiz brow like ze night and heart 
ver sad. Bimeby ve hare outside ze soun' of ze leetle 
piano vat runs on wheels, and zen come ze trample of 
« La Marseillaise ' ! — 

"Ah, madame, madame ! le fer, le bandeau, la 
flame ! Francois raised high ze window : 

1 ' ' Vive la marseillaise ! Salut a ma patrie ! ' 
he cry. 

" My fingers tremble ven I go to ze drawer and take 
from it our von last coin. I press it into my husban's 
hand. 'Dreenk,' I sait, * dreenk to La Belle France 
and ze music ! ' " 

The color had risen in the faded cheeks and the 
black eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. 

"And Francois — did he drink too much?" 

"Ah, non, madame," she replied. "He had jus' 
vat you call von ' jag petite.' " 

I had never thought the slang word funny until I 

heard it from the precise lips of the little Frenchwoman, 



156 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL, 

and her honest pride in her husband's celebration of the 
musical event was not less amusing. 

"When was he arrested? " I asked smilingly. 

"Madame," she said, very impressively, "in ze 
nex' block resides ze Prussian, Herkmann. My Francois 
remembare, an' he had ze thought zat burst into laugh- 
ter. So he hire ze man to play ' La Marsellaise ' at ze 
Prussian's door. Ah, you should haf seen ! Hans Herk- 
mann rushed to hees door — to ze sidewalk out, ven ze 
music beat upon his ear, an' cried ' Stop ! Stop ! ' But, 
aha ! our von last coin was varm in ze pocket of ze player. 
Zen my husban's heart vas vide. He shouted, ' Aux 
armes ! ' an' vept wiz ze happiness, till Hans Herkmann 
comes out once more to break hees head some. Zen it 
vas ze gendarmes arrive to conduct Francois to ze station 
de poleece." 

"Do ve hunger?" A slight cloud dimmed for a 
moment the serenity of her face. "Ah, sometimes, 
madame. But not so much ven ze violin haf all ze 
strings." 

She went to get the candle to light my way along 
the hall, bowing reverently as she passed before the tiny 



AN EVERY DAY STORY. 1 57 

crucifix, and then stood at the head of the stairs as I 
went down, shading the flickering flame with her thin, 
transparent hand. 

" Adieu, ma chere madame, adieu ! " 

I looked back into the smiling, care-defying face, 
with the candle light playing over the banded silver hair 
and touching faintly the furrowed cheeks and brow, 
and then went out into the night carrying its memory 
with me. 



HAFIZ PASHA, 

Ere ever the guns cease barking ; 

Ere ever the curved blue blade 
Is dry of the drops, like rubies, 

From the heart of Christian maid ; 
Ere ever the crescent trembles — 

(God grant it may fall ere long !) 
I would raise for a Moslem soldier 

The praise of a Christian song. 

Not alone to the Lord's anointed 

Is given the victor's sword ; 
For a lion's heart awakens 

Sometimes in a wolfish horde. 
And e'en in the Kurdish legions 

That war on the faint and weak, 
Have arisen a hundred warriors 

As brave as the dauntless Greek. 

It was down at the Pass Milouna — 
When the blood of th' Greek ran flame 

Ere the jeers of a fickle people 

Had weakened his hand with shame — 

158 



HAFIZ PASHA. 1 59 

That out from the swarthy troopers, 

Unheeding their warning cry, 
Rode Hafiz, the fighting pasha ; 

Hafiz, the leader, to die. 

Like snow lay his beard on his bosom ; 

Lordly and calm was his mien ; 
And his eyes from their bristling ambush 

Flashed each like a scimitar keen. 
And the serried ranks that faced him 

Scarce smothered their rousing cheers 
As they sighted the doughty hero 

In the pride of his eighty years ! 

No stranger was he to a thousand 

Who saw him ride forth that day. 
And comrade and foeman together 

Cried out to the vet' ran to stay, 
But he turned to the officers near him 

And said, with a darkening brow : 
"As I fought with the Russians at Plevna, 

I'll fight these infidels now ! " 

Right grand was the man in his daring ; 
He rose in his stirrups and swung 



l6o IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

Out into the thick of the battle, 
As an oak in a torrent is flung. 

"Ping ! " 'twas the voice of a bullet, 

And red grew his cheek and his beard ; 

" Ping ! " from his grasp clattered downward 
The sword which so many had feared ! 

"Halt and dismount, Hafiz Pasha," 

His followers cried, riding nigh. 
But he looked in their reverent faces 

With a flash in his fast-glazing eye, 
"I did not dismount for the Russians — 

Though led by their White Tzar," he said, 
"And shall I — " a bullet made answer ; 

He fell from his horse's back, dead ! 

And so, ere the guns cease barking ; 

Ere ever the curved blue blade 
Is dry of the drops, like rubies, 

From the heart of Christian maid ; 
Ere ever the crescent trembles — 

(Pray God it may fall ere long !) 
I will raise for a Moslem hero 

The praise of a Christian song. 



THE YANKEE MARINE. 
& 

February 16, 1898. 
The captain, brows stern, shoulders straight, soldier-wise, 
Was writing a note, but the smile in his eyes 
Proved well it was neither a log nor a chart, 
But just an account of the siege in his heart, 
For a lover more true, a warrior more keen, 
Ne'er woos and ne'er fights than a Yankee marine. 

The fo'ecastle watch hugged his gun to his breast ; 

Upon the dark waters the ship lay at rest. 

The songs of the bluejackets floated above, 

Each filled with the praise of a sailor lad's love. 

A name and a sigh and a lifted canteen ; 

And a prayer from the heart of each Yankee marine. 

" Beloved," the captain wrote on to his wife, 

"All's well with the Maine — though dark rumors are 

rife—" 
He stopped. Like a hound in the path of a train 
The battleship shook as she tugged at her chain. 
A boom ! A red blare ! And on shore, all unseen, 
Spain laughed at the fate of the Yankee marine ! 

161 



l62 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

A leap ! and a crash at the port cabin door ! 

A stumble through mangled and dead on the floor ! 

And Sigsbee rushed into the fierce fusillade 

Still pouring hot rain where his navies had played, 

While out of that Hades, with orderly mien, 

Eyes front, at salute, came a Yankee marine. 

His cutlass hand rose to his powder-burned head. 
"The Maine has blown up, sir; is sinking," he said. 
The eyes of the chief and the eyes of the tar 
Flashed into each other with one meaning : " War ! " 
And stars redly gleamed, through the smoke, on the 

scene, 
Where, fearful in death, lay the murdered marine. 

Small need for discussion ; small need for delay ; 
The heart of Columbia is stricken to-day. 
To arms ! Let the brazen-voiced bugle ring clear, 
The call that the nation is waiting to hear. 
With trample and gallop and musketry sheen, 
Huzza ! for our flag and the Yankee marine ! 



THE JEDGE O f FOLKS. 

I've ben here nigh about eighty year, 

Shadder an' storm an' shine ; 
An' I've come to see some things more clear 

Then I did in my younger time, 
An' I says to myself as I sets an' smokes, 
"I ain't ben appi'n'ted th' jedge o' folks." 

I'll own there's things that'll rile me some, 

(Mebbe I needn't say) ! 
I used to tackle 'em, one by one, 

Fur to straighten 'em out my way ; 
But, land ! I was feelin' my hatchet's edge, 
So's to be ax man as well as jedge. 

I reckon I meddled ; like enough ; 

Mostly it turns out so. 
An' hurt with my hands, so hard and rough 

Some wounds that I didn't jes' know. 
In fact, like the most of your " meanin' well,' 
I done more harm thun I'd like to tell. 
163 



164 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

But this is the waitin' time with me ; 

Clearer I see and think ; 
An' I face the facts jest as they be 

Whilest I watch life's embers sink, 
An' I says, as the back-log smold'rin' smokes, 
" I ain't ben appinted the jedge 0' folks ! " 



NIGHT. 

In frost 'broidered garments the hushed earth is swaying 
Out in the firmament's cradle of blue; 

And now are the daughters of music essaying 

For the God child, Creation, a slumber song new. 

Each wave to the shore its weird melody's bringing, 
Till ocean's grand orchestra sounds on the beach; 

But tuneless the lute and forgotten the singing, 
For silence is guarding the portals of speech. 

The while we yet toiled in the sun, Night was flinging 

Her veil over Orient gardens so fair; 
And now in its folds a strange fragrance is clinging, 

That lulls into slumber the grim warden, Care. 

And, spellbound, the keeper has left the gate swinging 
That leads to the dream meadow's poppy-fringed way; 

So haste thee, ere rose-armed Aurora, upspringing, 

Calls out from the east the swift cohorts of Day. 



165 



FROM THE MINE. 

D'ye know what it means to work under there, 
Away from the sunshine and outer air — 
The only free gifts even God can give 
To help a man in his struggle to live? 
Where the laugh of a child, the song of a bird, 
The voice of a woman, are never heard; 
Where the only sound is the click, clang, click 
Of your badge of power, the miner's pick? 

The thought of the damp grows a haunting dread, 
Not for ourselves — we were better dead; 
But for children, for wives, who bide above, 
With little to live on but faithful love; 
Smiling through hunger and cold, womanwise, 
And raising new hope when an old hope dies; 
And nerving our arms for a coming day, 
When for honest work there'll be honest pay. 

We burrow and store, like the senseless mole, 
Roofed and inclosed by the glittering coal, 
That changes to gold at touch of your hand — 
Gold for fresh pleasures, new treasures, more land, 
166 



FROM THE MINE. 167 

But leaves us blackhanded, and famished, and sick 
With naught in our hands but the shovel and pick — . 
Strong keys, which will some day, it may be, unlock 
The door that ne'er yielded to timider knock. 

We look from the dark and we cannot well see 
In the glare of the world how this thing can be, 
That you, who 're but men such as we, can hold 
The balance of pow'r, the will and the gold, 
While we, e'en as if we'd gone to the wall, 
And borne on our ears the brand of your aw. 
Must slave in your mines and sullenly turn 
To beg for the wage we honestly earn. 




\\ THE QUEST OF GUDRUN. 

They had been betrothed when 
Gudrun was 17 and Olaf had reached 
the age of 21. Betrothed solemnly 
with the blessing of the minister; and 
Gudrun had worn on her smooth, yellow braids the mar- 
riage crown that her mother and hers had worn before 
her, for engagements in Norway are not lightly given or 
kept, and the betrothal ceremonies are second only to the 
wedding in importance and pomp. 

Olaf was a splendid specimen of the Northman; a 
type of the vikings of song and story; yellow-haired and 
of kingly stature. 

The neighbors had frowned and murmured a little 
when his parents had given him his name as they held 
him at the baptismal fount in the old gray-stone church. 
"It is a king's name," they said, "and the keeper of 
flocks has no right to it!" But the holy water was already 
on the white brow of the child, and old Peter's boy was 
called Olaf instead of Peter's son. 

The years went by; and as Olaf grew to manhood a 
little girl sprang up like a flower in the household of the 

168 



THE QUEST OF GUDRUN. 



169 



good minister. Gudrun he called her; forgetting the saga 
which made Olaf, the fierce Christian king, the suitor for 
that hapless lady's hand. The boy had a fishing boat 
and was much of the time away at sea; but his towns- 
people whispered of wild tales they had heard of him; 
and shook their heads over the news of his adventures, 
which were carried back to the village from the seaports. 

But there came a day when Olaf stood like a sun- 
god at the gate of the garden where Gudrun was queen 
rose; and then the story began. 

A few weeks of happiness followed the betrothal, and 
then the young man determined to try his fortune in the 
new world. He was to leave on the next ship, and, ar- 
riving in New York, would make his way at once across 
the mighty country to California or Washington, where 
fortune waited every strong and willing 
hand. Together the young people followed 
the curious maps and read of the wonder- 
land beyond the ocean, and Gudrun's heart 
was as full of courage and enthusiasm as 
her lover's own. 

She would wait at home and spin the 
fine linen and soft wool for their garments 




1 70 IF TAM SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

and housshold needs, and when he had made a little 
home for her she would not be afraid to cross the seas 
to him. 

At first letters came rich in description and hope, 
and Gudrun sang and beat with her slippered foot to the 
music of voice and spinning wheel on the sanded floor. 
Then the messages were less frequent, and finally ceased 
altogether. 

The neighbors, whose faith in the young man had 
been fanned into life by his love for the minister's 
daughter, began shaking their heads again. But the girl, 
true and sound to the heart as the young pines in her 
native forests, never doubted one moment. Six months, 
a year, two years went by. The old minister died, and 
the daughter put a white cross at the head of the new 
mound in the country churchyard; then quietly made her 
preparations and sailed on the very next steamer of the 
North German Lloyds line that left the port. 

With Olaf's letters for her guide, she followed the 
way he had gone across the continent and up into 
Washington. 

It was midday when she reached a little northern 
station, which was the last postoffice address Olaf had 



THE QUEST OF GUDRUN. 



171 




given her. The postmaster was a Nor- 
wegian, and he looked at her a little 
strangely when she inquired how she j 
could reach the hut in the woods that 
he had described to her. 

"Yes, he is there," he admitted 
reluctantly; "but the path is wild and 
dangerous. No, there is no guide and 
the horses can not get through. Wait, I will call my 
wife." 

A fair-haired woman came out of the house and 
urged its hospitality upon the young stranger, but she 
would not wait. The man drew a rough diagram on a 
paper and gave it to the girl. 

"Follow the path up the mountain as far as the 
trees are blazed," he said,, "then turn to the left and 
watch for the bushes with broken twigs." 

The woman looked at the girl earnestly. "God be 
with you," she said simply, "and remember the same 
path leads back to this door." 

Gudrun stepped swiftly along over the heavy, damp 
sod and soon the forest closed around her. Even the 
great wooded stretches of her own land had nothing so 



172 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 




vast and impenetrable. The trees stood with 
roots and branches interlocking, and mighty 
trunks barred the way, while only a faint 
glimmer of light fell through the living green 
above her. 

The stillness was deeper and more awful 
than silence. Not a bird note or chirp of 
insect, or flutter of a dry leaf broke the hush of that 
solitude. Only her heartbeats sounded like the trample 
of horses almost upon her. Fear gripped her throat and 
smothered her; she thought of the wild creatures that 
would creep out of those shadows at night. 

"Olaf! Olaf!" she screamed in terror. But her 
words fell back in a score of echoes upon her. Moss, 
gray as her father's hair, looped from the trees and held 
her, but still she hurried onward. Suddenly a chicken 
ran out of the bushes in front with a shrill note of fright. 
She clapped her hands and laughed hysterically. Here 
at last was life and domesticity! She could hardly move 
for trembling. 

A little beyond was an opening and there was a 
hut with smoke creeping lazily from its old chimney. She 
rushed to the open doorway. 



THE QUEST OF GUDRUN. 1 73 

"Olaf!" The glad cry was left unuttered on her 
lips. The man she had crossed the seas to meet was 
there; but with him was a strange, dark woman, with 
straight black hair and flashing eyes. A coarse red 
blanket hung about her shoulders and in its folds she 
carried a child, fair of face and with Saxon features. 

The girl crouched in the shadows and saw Olaf take 
the child from its mother's arms and sing to him the 
Norseman's lullaby. Then she ran back to the shelter 
of the woods, blindly retracing -her steps through the 
forest, and to the cottage at the station. 

The fair-haired woman was at the door to meet her. 

"I knew you would come, poor lamb," she said, in 
the dear home language. "Come in, now, and rest." 

She led the fainting girl into a neat little room and 
untied her shoes, as a mother might have done, giving 
her food and soothing her with tact- 
ful silence. By and by the good man 
came in and held a lighted candle 
before her in the quaint Norse custom. 

"Blow out the light, maiden," 
he said, "with a prayer. Your trouble 
will go with it." 




174 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

She did as he requested and in a few moments sank 
into a sweet sleep. The woman looked into her peace- 
ful face and smiled gently. 

"Twas the best cure, husband," she said, "it is well 
that we let her go." 

This is the life story that Gudrun herself told me a 
day or so ago, and while she was speaking a black-haired 
boy came up and caught her with fierce affection in his 
arms. 

"This is Olaf's son* she said. "Olaf and his Indian 
wife both died and there was no one to care for the little 
one. So, after all, you see" (with a smile of tenderest 
radiance), "it is well that Gudrun came." 







SONNET. 

Love blossoms on the heights. The edelweiss 
Should be its emblem rather than the rose. 
Above the line of the eternal snows 

It blooms, component flame and dew and ice. 

Purer than pearls, and rarer than the spice 

The ships of Ophir brought the Holy Land, 
The treasure waits the daring climber's hand 

And yields its guerdon for his sacrifice. 

But 'broidering the garments of the hills, 

Wild, tangled, riotous and wild' ring, grow 

Sweet counterfeits that he may take who wills; 

Deep tropic blooms that through dusk twilights glow; 
And many linger in their lang'rous thrall 
Who never clasp the perfect flow'r at all. 



175 



THE LEGEND OF THE MOSS ROSE. 

& 

The florist's door -was opened wide and, as I tried 
to hurry past, a wave of fragrance swept around and 
held me. The window was filled with roses of different 
hues and varying degrees of beauty ; and cool and sweet 
beneath them, on deep banks of moss, nestled the violets 
and forget-me-nots. I stepped within and a man came 
forth to meet me. He greeted me with a smile of 
cordial recognition, and I noticed that the heart of a 
child looked from the blue eyes half shadowed by the 
shaggy brows of age, and that he was a German, with 
the songs of his fatherland singing always in his heart, 
as he lived among his flowers and his memories. 

" You haf come? " he said, as though he had been 
long expecting me "Ah, dot ist goot ! De flowers 
bow you velcome. De} vatch you effery morgen ven 
you bass und nods dere headts und vispers to each 
odder ' Some tay she vill come to us, some tay, 
some tay.'" 

176 



THE LEGEND OF THE MOSS ROSE. I?/ 

Beyond his first pleased glance the old man had not 
looked at me, but he talked as he moved softly around 
among some flowering plants and turned their flushing 
faces, with loving touches, toward the light. 

" Do you mean that the roses know me ; that they 
understand that I love them and are glad?" I asked, 
strangely moved by the suggestion. 

"Dot ist so — 

"Ah, mein liebling ! " he exclaimed, turning away 
from me and lifting a beautiful moss rose from the floor, 
" droop not dy headt — all vill yet be veil ! " 

His tone was as tender as though he comforted a 
wounded child, and he bent over a bruised and swaying 
branch caressingly. 

He was silent for a little while, tying some stray- 
ing branches, with careful hands, a tender smile flashing 
up from his lips and settling in his eyes. 

"Do you know de oldt German story," he asked, 
" how de soft, creen cratle come for the new-porn rose? 
No? Ah, das vaterland ist de land of de music; de 
land of the legend und story, vere die mutter's morgen- 
lied sings in de heardts of de schildren foreffer ! " 



178 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

A flush crept over his features and a bar of some 
long-forgotten song quavered upon his lips. 

" Will you tell me the legend of the rose? " I asked. 

The old man took a dewy blossom in his hand and 
gazed at it meditatively. 

"Yen I vas a leetle poy — so high," he began, "I 
dook a rose vrom a tree dot grew by de house vere I vas 
porn, und I vent in und put de flower in de yellow braids 
of my young mutter's hair. Ah, I see now de light in 
dose soft blue eyes — God's forget-me-nots dey haf 
always peen to me — as she dook me upp close mit her 
arms und sait : 

"Vonce ven the vorldt vas sadt an angel come 
town to help und comfort all de sons of men, but dey 
drived him avay, und he sees so much grief und sin und 
hear so much efil vords dot he vas faint und veary, und 
he try to find a place of rest. But he vandered along 
und no door opened, no one asked him to come in, und 
at last he fal't town by the roatside und sleept till the 
sun shone out und a breeze come opp vrom de nort und 
scattered some soft, pink petals on his face. Den he 
vake opp und look aroundt, und dere was a tall rosetree 



THE LEGEND OF THE MOSS ROSE. 179 

bendin' down its boughs to shelter him und svayin' all 
its green branches above his headt, while de leaves 
rustled und vispered like dey vas singin' him to sleep 
vonce more. 

" It vas tay, und de angel rose mit his face to de 
east und stretched vide his vings ; he dook a rose und 
blaced it in his bosom and sait : ' Thou hast given 
me a shelter denied by man, und henceforth thou shalt 
lie in a cratle of moss as a token of my Master's lof 
and power.' 

"So on branch und stem de creen moss grew, en- 
foldting each bud and blossom ; und de rose became the 
sweetest in all de vorldt ! " 

The old man talked as he selected the dewy blos- 
soms for my bouquet, and the sweet old legend fell from 
reverent lips. 

" The story is very beautiful," I said, " but " — the 
cynicism of the western skies came down upon me — "do 
you think that it is true ? " 

The gardener looked at me in great surprise. Re- 
proach and commiseration struggled for the mastery. 

"You beleef it not? Nein?" A flash of indig- 
nation hardened the tender eyes. He turned to the 



180 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

window full of the deep-hearted flowers and laid the 
ones he had chosen for me down beside them. 

"You must oxcuse me," he said with cold for- 
mality ; " I cannot gif you my roses off you don't beleef 
in dem. A man may not greef de soul of a flower. " 

I walked between the sentinel lilies and out into the 
street, but I did not hear the roses whisper as I passed : 

"Some day she will come to us; some day, some 
day." 



"HEIMGANG." 

"Heimgang," she said, the quaint old-fashioned speech 
Curving her lips to smiling e'er it ceased. 

Without the Dawn stretched her pale hand to reach 

The purple clouds and draw them from the East. 

And light began to filter through the room, 

From the low window to the raftered wall, 

Like bars of gold athwart the heavy gloom, 

While silence brooded softly over all. 

And up from bar to bar her glances passed, 

As though it were a ladder to the skies, 

That her pure soul, freed from its bonds at last, 
Trod, round by round, up to its Paradise. 

We knew that she was dying, but her eyes, 

Dimmed with the bitterness of homesick tears, 

Grew bright as with a sudden glad surprise, 

And from her forehead fled the marks of year.*! 

Then sweet and clear upon the wings of day 

The matin bells their tuneful message cast; 

And, smiling in our eyes, she went her way, 

Glad, as a tired child, for home, at last 
181 



AUTUMN. 

O, the golden haze of the Autumn days 
When the sun hangs o'er the hills, 

And the mellow wine of vintage time 
The heart of Nature thrills ! 

How the forest's gloom bursts into bloom 

And the laden orchards bow ! 
The sun has kissed into amethyst 

The grapes' deep clusters now. 

The scarlet vine to the oak and pine 

Has fled with glowing look : 
She has veiled the path of the lightning's wrath 

And raced with the noisy brook. 

As the seasons march 'neath the sky's blue arch 
We may sing their praise and cheer. 

But the Autumn time is the golden prime — 
Yes, the crowning of the year. 



182 



EPH'RUM'S MATRIMONIAL SURPRISES. 

They were sitting too far back from the lake shore 
to see much of the cycling contest, but they did not seem 
to mind that very much, Beyond the crowd of brightly- 
garmented people that stretched like a low and jeweled 
wall in front of them they could catch sight of the lagoon 
hemmed with its band of vivid emerald sward ; and from 
there look far off to where 
the bending heaven 
touched the waters and 
the strong east wind 
snatched snowy clouds 
from the sapphire sky 
and tore them into white 
caps for the waves. 

Occasionally the 
old couple would lift 
their dark faces toward 
the statue of a man 
on horseback, outlined 
against the sky and 
standing silent and im- 




1 84 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

movable between them and their world, but if the sight 
had any significance to them they gave no sign. The 
cold breeze fluttered the shawl on the woman's ample 
shoulders, and she drew it closer as she said: 

"Dar wan't no sich cold fall days w'en we uster 
walk togedder befo' wah times, war dar, Eph'rum?" 

She looked a little curiously into the withered black 
face of the man beside her and continued: 

"Seems like I couldn't hardly b'leeve dat dis is yo'. 
I alius 'member yo' like yo' was w'en I saw yo' las'. 
Lan\ how yo' uster rastle; dey couldn't none of 'em 
fro' yo' ! An' how yo' could stomp the hoedown ! I 
ain't neber fo'got dat ! How long yo' b'en lookin' foh 
me, Eph'rum?" 

She smoothed the faded ribbon at her throat and 
smiled at him with the pathetic coquetry of age. The 
old man coughed apologetically and said with commend- 
able hesitation: 

"W— wall, yo' see, I cain't jes' tell how long I 
mought 'a' be'n lookin' foh yo', honey, ef Tanzy Ann 
hedn't hed sich a lingerin' disp'sition. It war dis way: W'en 
yo' was sol' an' moved up de ribber I was dat 'stracted 
dat de fust t'ing I knowed I wuz ma'h'd to ole Jim's 



eph'rum's matrimonial surprises. 185 

daughtah. Yo' knowed Tanzy, didn't yo' ? Why she war 
de putties' — I mean she war dat pore, liT lame nigger 
ob Jim's. We libed in de cabin whar ole mis' planted 
de honeysuckle vines, an' — oh, dem vines all died!" 

The woman was watching him closely, and the wily 
old man was trying to keep all the remembrances of 
his past happiness out of his voice, and to explain his 
long delay in claiming his bride. He saw that he was 
making some mistakes. 

"Wall, liT Tanzy Ann wasn't neber vehy well," he 
continued, "an' I uster tote her roun' in meh ahms like 
she wuz candy — an' one day she died." 

Eph'rum turned away and gazed out over the waters 
— a redeeming light upon his crafty face. 

"Wen she die?" the woman asked abruptly. 

"She ben dead twenty- two years de sebenth day ob 
July," he replied, with unusual promptness and exact- 
ness as to date. 

His companion snorted contemptuously. 

"An' yo' ben lookin' foh me foh twenty-two years? 
Humph !" 

"W — wall, I done sta'ted out to look foh yo*. I 
heerd dat yo' war up no'th, an' I come 'long up to 



1 86 IF TAM O'SHAXTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 



Lexington — on meh wey to fin' yo\ yo' know. An' ef 
I didn't come 'cross Lizy Stow. Yo' 'member Lizy ? 
An' de fust ting I knowed she done got ma'h'd to me 
— an' dar I wuz ! So I tought I mought jes as well 
settle right down dar whar Lizy hed a good bisness in 
de washin' and ihnin' line. Hi ! how I uster camp down 
in de sun, 'side de vine dat kivered de cabin, an' heah 
de music ob de soapsuds bilin' ober on de stove an' de 
rub-dub ob Lizy's knuckles on the washboa'd ! An' I'd fall 
fas' asleep jes de minute I'd heah huh rastlin' roun' foh 
de pail an' gin to look foh me to tote in de rinsh watah." 

The old man fell into a 
meditative silence but the 
woman was visibly impatient. 

"Lizy Stow uster be 
pow'ful humbly," she said. 
"Wen she die ?" 

"Le's see," he began, 
reflectively; "I reckon she's 
ben gone moughty nigh fif- 
teen years, foh Hepsy an' 
me had ben ma'h'd ober 
fourteen years w'en she 
died, las' week." 




eph'rum's matrimonial surprises. 187 

The listener arose in her wrath. 

"Yo' ain' gwine tell me dat youse ben ma'h'd since 
Lizy died, is yo' ?" 

He quailed a little under her fierce eyes, but an- 
swered bravely: 

"W — wall, yo' see, it wus jes like dis, Pearly: 
Wen Lizy j'ined huh sistahs in de Lor', I sole de flat 
ihans an' washboa'd and de bushel o' peach-pits we 
owned, an' den I sta'ted out foh to look foh de lubly 
floweh I'd ben a pinin' foh so long — dat wuz yo', honey. 
An' w'en I wuz trabelin' a-huntin' foh yo', who'd I cum 
'cross but Hepsy, an' de fust t'ing I knowed — " 

"De fust t'ing yo' know some udder fool woman' 11 
mah'y yo', I s'pose," said his companion, glowering upon 
him in righteous anger, "but I 'tell yo', Mistah Eph'rum 
Har'son, dat woman ain' gwine ter be me !" 

She strode away majestically; but an hour later 
when I passed the place again, they were sitting close 
together and "Eph'rum" was evidently resigning himself 
to another matrimonial surprise. 



LULLABY. 

J» 

Sleep, Beloved, sleep, 

Through the night watch deep, 
He will give His angels charge concerning thee 

Let thy evening prayer 

Loose the chains of care 
And thy slumber calm and peaceful be. 

Sleep, Beloved, sleep, 

For a legion fleet 
Is encamped upon the circling hills of night; 

From this world below 

Swift-winged heralds go 
To the courts of Heaven, where all is light. 

Sleep, Beloved, sleep — 

Ah, thou may'st not weep ! 
See, thy mother holds thee close against her breast! 

Smile in mine eyes, dear, 

Alone, I am here, 
God's own anointed — rest, baby, rest. 



188 



KELSEY. 
J* 

Days and weeks sometimes passed without a news- 
paper or a message from outside finding its way into the 
lumber camp. Not that the rough, bearded men in their 
red shirts and corduroys cared much about that, though. 
The outside world was pretty effectively shut away from 
them by the tall trees of the northern forest, and what 
was going on in this city or that was not a matter of 
much thought or interest. In fact the bosses knew it was 
just as well to keep the minds of the choppers from the 
attractions of the towns until pay day, at least ; for a 
good deal of wild blood ran in the veins of the strong- 
limbed, hairy-chested loggers that only needed the 
whisky to make desperate. A pity, too ; for rude and 
untutored as many of them were, the day did not pass 
without some instance of kindness or charity or good 
comradeship — that is when the effects of the last de- 
bauch had worn off and the anticipation of the next had 
not begun to flush the brown faces and set a glitter in 
the keen eyes and make the men sullen and ugly toward 
every one in camp. 

189 



I90 IF TAM O'SHAXTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

In the whole crew that set out for the woods 
last winter no one man was more feared and hated 
than Kelsey. He was a big, black-bearded fellow with 
eyes as cold as the blade of his ax, half hidden under 
overhanging brows. A deep scar cut across his. face 
diagonally from forehead to chin, dividing the bronzed 
flesh with a track of livid white, and adding to his sinister 
appearance , He was a man of few words and did not 
chum much with the fellows, and after a first understand- 
ing with him even Borson, the Swede, did not attempt any 
more familiarity. 

It was at mess the first night in camp. They had had 
some songs and stories, and you could tell that some of 
them were just winding up a big spree. Borson called at- 
tention to the scar on Kelsey's face and offered to bet he 
could give him another to match it. But when the rest 
finally got the Swede from under the Irishman's knee 
and carried him to his bunk there wasn't much fight left 
in him ; and as no one seemed inclined to pick up the 
quarrel where he had left off, Kelsey wasn't interfered 
with after that time. 

But there was a good deal of uneasiness in camp 
and some mutterings among the men, and even the over- 



KELSEY. 191 

seer came to regard him as a dangerous fellow. Nobody 
knew a thing against him, it is true ; but you know how 
fast suspicion travels ; and it wasn't long before there 
were a dozen murders laid to his account. One thing 
did seem against him among the open-handed lot. He 
was miserly with his money. Cards seemed to have no 
attractions for him, and although they all knew a man 
of his character must be a hard drinker, he never joined 
the others in their decorating tours through the town 
when they went out of the woods. 

"Well, it went on for the early part of the winter, 
without any change in the feeling of the crew as far as 
Kelsey was concerned, and then a few days before 
Christmas the men were paid off and allowed a holiday. 

They took the long sledge and a double team, and 
hauled out early in the morning. Kelsey was along, and 
the men had planned among themselves to stay sober 
long enough to see what "deviltry" he might be up to. 
Borson and a man named Farwell were to shadow him, 
and to signal the others when they had him in a trap. 

He didn't make them wait very long, for as soon as 
they had their dinner at the Lumberman's hotel, he left 



I92 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

the crew and strode hurriedly up the street. Borson and 
Farwell followed at a distance, and the rest brought up 
the rear. He dodged into a low door of a shabby build- 
ing, and, after a brief wait, reappeared carrying long, 
carefully wrapped bundles, and directing the removal of 
three or four large boxes of suspicious size and shape. 
The two spies looked at each other, paling under the 
bronze of their bearded cheeks. They saw him hail an 
express wagon, and pile the boxes in with his own hands, 
laying the long bundles carefully on top, and then, tak- 
ing his place beside his packages, drive hurriedly to the 
express office. 

Half an hour later the receiving clerk of the express 
company was facing a score of excited lumbermen. 

What was it Kelsey shipped a few minutes before? 
They demanded the list. The clerk ran his finger down 
the day's page leisurely. He belonged in that country, 
and was not afraid of the fierce, red-shirted loggers when 
they were not drunk. So he read composedly : 

" From John Kelsey, Blank's Logging Camp, to St. 
Vincent's Orphan Asylum, Chicago : 

"One dozen wax doll babies. 



KELSEY. I93 

"Three rocking horses. " ' 

" Six steam engines. 

" One dozen toy kitchens. 

"Onedoz — " 

"Here, that's enough ! Shut up, will ye?" 

Borson pounded the counter threateningly and the 
other men sidled toward the door. 

" Christmas toys for the orphan kids in Chicago ! 
Christmas toys ! An' we come here to do him up ! " 

The speaker, one of the roughest of the gang, blinked 
a little and rubbed his red sleeve across his eyes. 

Silently the men trooped back to where Kelsey stood 
rubbing the winter coat of one of the horses and looking 
out over the snow reflectively. 

"Pardner," said the leader, advancing and holding 
out a huge, grimy hand, "We've misjedged ye an' we'd 
like ter make it square ! " 

Kelsey took the hand and responded to its hearty 
grip, and then the loggers passed up in a line until 
they had all given the astonished Irishman proof of 
their change of heart, and expressed in bluff, laconic 
speech their feeling toward him. And more than one 



194 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

went back to camp that night in unwonted soberness, 
muttering under his breath, with oaths which meant de- 
voutest prayers : 

" Christmas toys for orphan children in Chicago ! 
Little forsaken kids' Christmas toys ! " 



THE HUSKING BEE, 
J* 

In grandma's room, one rainy day, 

Sweet Madge and Ethel, Blanche and Mae 

Talk of the waltz and redowa 

In a laughing chatter, all. 
And grandma listens, sitting straight 
In high-backed chair, beside the grate, 
Her cheeks abloom with roses late, 

As they gossip of the ball. 

But grandma'd been a lassie, too, 
And in her eyes of faded blue 
Youth's smold'ring fires flame anew 

As she hears their voices bright. 
Then back her thoughts across the space 
Like homing doves, unloosened, race 
To reach a mem'ry-hallowed place, 

All aglow with candle-light ! 

She sees a barn with rafters bare ; 
High, bronze-hued pyramids, and there 
A lad with silky, yellow hair, 
Like the ripe and tasseled corn. 

i95 



I96 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

She sees a double waving line 
Of lads and lassies, brave and fine, 
Move back and forth in lively time 
To the fiddle and the horn. 

Her heart takes up the music's beat ; 
She hears the trample of their feet, 
As now they part, and now they meet, 

With a curt'sy staid and low. 
Dark eyes look straight into her own, 
As two and two advance alone, 
A youth and maid ; she hears a tone, 

And her cheeks begin to glow. 

The dance is done ; the tasks begin ; 
The lantern light is pale and dim ; 
She gives a side-long glance at him — 

As he, bashful, lingers near. 
The rustling husks away they strip, 
A laugh and song on each young lip, 
And something else? — she gives the slip — 

He has found the scarlet ear ! 

The lights grow pale, the music dies, 



THE HUSKING BEE. I97 

Before her dim and faded eyes 
The vision of her girlhood flies, 

As the day melts into dusk. 
The girls steal out and leave her there 
In her old-fashioned, high-back chair. 
But, smiling still, she hums the air 

Of the ancient " Money Musk." 



KATIE'S LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING. 

A cloud of coal-oil smoke rolled out of the door 
when Katie opened it in response to my knock, and I 
saw that her pretty rosy face was very smudgy. 

" Sure it's like invitin' ye intil th' ole Nick's kitchen, 
barrin' the brimstone, mum," said Katie, apologetically, 
as she wiped a chair with her checked apron and drew it 
as near to the open window as the chilly day would 
permit. 

" It's light housekapin' I'm doin', mum, if ye plaze," 
she continued, with fine scorn, " except the time when 
I'm doin' dark housekapin' wid that little smokin' imp 
out there. Bad cess til the man phat pairsuaded me to 
trade off me dacent range and me Christian character 
for that ! 

"An' didn't I fale contint wid the stove I had until 
he tould me iv all the money I'd be havin' in the bank 
fur a rainy day ; whin I cud have the purty stove shinin' 
on me table an' doin' all me cookin' an' ironin' an' ivery 
blissed thing about the work fur sivin cints a week ! But 
niver a wurrud did he say about the death it ud give 

198 



KATIE'S LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING. 1 99 

Terry an' me — not countin' that poor crature forninst 
yer head there I " 

Katie turned a wrathful glance at the bird-cage 
above my head, but when I looked up I laughed until, 
after undergoing all the changes of surprise, vexation 
and resentment, her face relaxed into a rueful smile. 

The canary bird, originally of brightest yellow color 
and shrillest voice, stood on one foot, high up on the top- 
most perch of his painted cage, black as the storied 
raven, and more uncanny because of the dull griminess 
of his plumage. Not a note or a sound came from his 
sooty beak, but his round, black eyes gleamed sullenly 
upon Katie as if he considered her responsible for his 
humiliation. 

" Ah, he's gittin' used til it now, mum," she said. 
"I niver can lave that blatherin' thing out there for 
three minutes that the wick don't creep up like the de- 
savin' thing it is, and smoke us out iv house an' home. 
Do ye mind the two eyes of him? Ugh ! if he wor dead 
it's a hant he'd be ! " 

Katie's experiences with an oil stove were not dif- 
ferent in kind from some I had known, and I was inter- 
ested. 



200 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

"I think you must learn more about the proper 
management of the stove, Katie," I said. 

" Indade, mum" — "that is, I mean — would you 
advise some student friends of mine to buy an oil stove — 
a little one, you know, to get their breakfasts on?" 

" Not if I pertinded to be a frind til them, mum," 
she answered impressively. "It's often I, myself, am 
timpted to use some iv Terry's sayins' to relave me 
falin's whin I find me iligant bread wid a top as black 
as a chimney-sweep's hat, and soot over ivery thing in 
the house, not mentionin' poor Dicksy. An' no tellin' 
the sin ye frinds might be gittin' in bekase iv it ! 
There's only wan consolation I have, mum," she con- 
tinued, looking devoutly upward, as though her comfort 
came from angelic source, " an' that is, the man phat 
sold me the stove owns this flat, and ivery stick iv the 
furnitoore belongs til him ! " 



MILKMAN JIM* 
J* 

Our milkman is the nicest man ! 
Each mornin' when he brings our can 
He clinks the top an' slams it down, 
An' stomps an' sings an' bangs aroun' 
So I'll wake up an' run to see 
If there's a cup of cream for me ; 
Er else he calls, in loudest tones : 
" Here's milk for you, young shackle-bones ! " 

Some folks don't like the noise ; they say 
They wisht he'd let 'em sleep till day ! 
But he don't care. He says it's fine 
To wake up mornin's in good time. 
"Early to bed an' quick to rise, 
Will make us strong and well and wise," 
An' he should think a boy would grow 
Jes' like a weed by doin' so. 

He says that he don't take no stock 
In other kids that's in our block, 
But he's an awful friend to me, 
An' takes me with him frequently. 

201 



202 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

I grab my clothes when down below 

I hear him holler : " Whoa, there, whoa ! " 

An' when we ride, zigzag, along, 

He sings for me some funny song. 

He folds his coat behind my back, 
An' lets me take the whip to crack ; 
He shows me gophers in the hedge, 
An' little flowers on the ledge, 
An' says the bluebird flyin' by 
Is jes' a piece knocked off the sky, 
An' then he reaches back the cup 
That brims with milk when it comes up. 

Tom Jones has got a pony cart 
An' he jes' thinks he's awful smart ; 
An' Charlie Brown has got a man 
That tags him up and down the san' 
To see he don't get in the sun, 
Er splash his suit, er have some fun. 
But I won't trade ; for Milkman Jim 
Says I can grow up jes' like him ! 



KEEPIN' CUMP'NY. 

She stood so close to the window of the great music 
store that the edges of her sunbonnet pressed against 
the glass, and I could not see the eager face in the calico 
tunnel until the wind snipped rudely at her thin and 
fluttering garments, and she turned for an instant to 
protest : 

"Wha's de use ob yoh ackin' like dat foh? Cayn't 
yo leave a pore ole body 'lone? I ain't doin' numn ter 
sturb yoh ! " 

Not a smile crossed the dark face, and she addressed 
the wind as if it were an actual visible presence, gather- 
ing her scant gown in one bony hand and drawing it back 
as from another's grasp. 

" Seems moughty queer a pore body can't look in ter 
de winder foh to see de banjos and fiddles, outen Brer 
Win' haf ter come long ; " she grumbled, finding in me a 
willing auditor, " he feels like he owns ever'ting w'at 
sings." 

"I didn't know that he claimed the stringed instru- 
ments," I said, falling in with her fancy. "What 
makes you think that ? " 

203 



204 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

" Case he comes ebry night when Eph'rum plays," 
she answered solemnly, rolling her eyes toward my face. 
"Wen de fire gins ter crackle and de dark shadders 
from de corners run out arter de little candle on de table 
and stretch dere long fingers on de wall Eph'rum comes 
home an' I yere him trummin' on de banjo like he did 
afore he went away. He sets close up by de winder and 
he stomps de floor twell de cabin shakes and I see agin de 
darkies in de cotton fiels and yere de tramp of de hoe- 
down wen de harvest's passed ; an' de glory wen de Lord 
awakes ! 

"Oh, no, Eph'rum ain'mehson; he's jes meh ole 
man. He died wen we was comin' up yere. But he 
knows how lonesome I git fur de banjo tunes an' so he 
comes an' plays um foh me. Dere ain't no use ob Brer 
Win's comin' long, but he stan's outside, a-beatin' on de 
doah an' a-knockin' on de winder twell we let him in, an' 
den he sings wif de banjo an' his voice beats on my heart 
like de frozen rain, an' bimeby wen I cayn't see no mo' 
an' de marrer in my bones turns col' hit comes day." 

I looked into the poor old face, black and wrinkled 
as one of ancient Egypt's dead, and set with the seal of 
madness. 



KEEPIN' CUMP'NY. 205 

"Have you no one to stay with you?" I asked, 
" no one to keep you company? " 

The monotonous voice grew suddenly tender : "Keep 
cump'ny? Oh, yes, honey; me an' Eph'rum, we alius 
keep cump'ny ! " She passed her hand across her brow : 
" I'd be mos' 'stracted outen Eph'rum." 



HOW BUD BROUGHT IN THE COPY* 

The city editor opened the door and peered impa- 
tiently through the clouds of smoke rolling up over the 
long center table in the reporters' room. 

"Did you get that story, Carleton?" he asked. 

" Carleton's not in yet, Mr. Howard," one of the 
men replied. He — " 

But the door shut with a bang, to open a minute 
later, when the same worried voice inquired : 

"Where's Bud? No, I suppose he isn't to be found, 
either ! Did any one ever know him to be on hand when 
he was wanted? Here, Bud," as the grimy-faced galley 
and general-utility boy in question came in with his 
proofs, " go down to the foot of F street and find Carle - 
ton. There's a wreck off the point, but it won't do us 
any good unless he gets here with that copy pretty soon. 
We go to press at 3 o'clock — in just two hours. Bud — " 

He stopped with a half smile, for the boy was already 
part way down the stairs on his way to the street. 

None of us knew exactly why we gave the weird, 
shriveled specimen of boyhood the name of Bud. Pos- 

206 



HOW BUD BROUGHT IN THE COPY. 207 

sibly it was because of the certainty we felt that he would 
never become a blossom. He was a thin-shouldered, 
shrunken-chested little fellow, small even for his twelve 
years, with a sharp-featured, unchildish face and the 
suggestion of eternal croup in his voice. He had drifted 
into the office one stormy night about a year before the 
time of which I write, and, although his request for "a 
place " had been promptly refused, he had calmly stayed 
on, and become a fixture. He was not communicative 
about himself, and we were not particularly curious. 
One of the women proofreaders discovered before long 
that the gray rat under her desk was not a more constant 
habitue of the office than was Bud. He spent the hours 
between the time the paper went to press and the arrival 
of the day men at 11 o'clock sleeping on a pile of empty 
mail sacks in a dark corner of the engine-room, but from 
that time on he was alert and ready for business. As 
"understudy" for Frank, the regular galley boy, he 
was fast picking up a knowledge of printing and had 
occasionally displayed a surprising amount of information 
regarding the general make-up of a newspaper ; strongly 
imbued with the idea that all things were secondary in 



208 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

importance and must be subservient to its requirements. 
Nothing pleased him so much as an errand of the kind 
just given him by the city editor, and we all knew he 
would return on time if he was alive. 

Carleton was a new man on the paper, a little green 
in the business, but with a " nose for news " and a sense 
of honor and the eternal fitness of things, coupled with 
reliability of statement. Mr. Howard had looked over 
his staff that night before giving the assignment. 

"Get to that wreck, Carleton," he said, testily. 
" You are the only man here who can write it up without 
having the waves roll mountain high.-" And the new 
reporter had torn a thick section from the block of copy 
paper and hurried away. 

Bud found no difficulty in locating the wreck, al- 
though he could see its dark spars outlined against the 
sky much better by running along the river front as far 
as H street. The storm, which had been raging for 
three days, and had finally caused the disaster, had sub- 
sided a trifle, and from his distance the great, black hulk 
seemed resting easily upon the waves. On account of 
the hour there were but few spectators — only the hurry- 



HOW BUD BROUGHT IN THE COPY. 209 

ing life-saving crews, the patrolmen and the inevitable 
groups of ragged wharf rats. And Bud observed, with 
delight, that not another paper had a reporter on the 
scene. He looked around for Carleton and some one 
told him that the "chap" that had been writing there 
for a long time, sitting on an overturned small boat, had 
at last righted the little craft and set off for the half- 
submerged ship. 

" He hadn't oughter, either," the man continued. 
"This water ain't as peaceful as it looks. We had a 
hard pull gettin' in the last trip with the passengers, and 
the wind is risin' higher every minute." 

It was true that the clouds had begun to roll again, 
while the lightning threw ever sharper and more jagged 
fangs across the sky. The crew on shore made hasty 
preparations to put out. There were still many people 
aboard the wreck — a number of them women and chil- 
dren. Bud was the first one in the boat. 

" Come out of that, youngster," said a sailor. " Be 
quick with you !" 

"I'm goin'," cried the boy. "I've got to see 
Carleton — I've got to — I tell you ! " 



2IO IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

The sailor's hand was on his collar, but Bud clung 
to the seat with desperation, the muscles in his little 
hands standing out like a gladiator's. 

"I've got to get something for the paper!" His 
voice rose to a shrill scream, but the man lifted him out, 
sat him, not ungently, down on the wet sand and pushed 
off the boat. With a fierce cry the boy was after him, 
clinging like a monkey to its side. The sailor loosened 
the stubborn hands and he dropped backward into the 
water. He scrambled to the shore and stood choking 
with impotent rage, strange oaths pouring from his lips 
and his frail hands beating at the air. 

The wind increased in violence. The thunder was 
terrific, and the heavens were cut with broad, white 
blades. The night grew ever blacker, but he could see 
by the flashes that the lifeboat rolled heavily and seemed 
in distress. He sank down and dug his hands deep into 
the sand. All at once a peal of thunder shook the solid 
earth ; a flash of lightning leaped down and seemed to 
lap up the sea and ships. Bud uncovered his eyes, and 
in a moment his shrill voice was added to the chorus of 
agony sent up from among the flames of the fated steamer. 



HOW BUD BROUGHT IN THE COPY. 211 

Lightning had struck her ; and the boy had heard the 
sailors say that she carried a consignment of coal oil. 

The light was bright enough now and the watchers 
could see a small, dark object leave her luminous side 
and head toward shore. It was the small boat. Bud 
screamed in ecstasy as he saw a man, Carleton, work at 
the oars. The time seemed an eternity and the boat, 
overcrowded as it was with women and children, seemed 
to make no progress. It was in danger of swamping. 
How long before the explosion must occur? 

The boy threw himself face downward upon the 
beach again and waited. Presently he lifted his eyes 
and saw the man in the boat rise and gently put back 
the hands that were extended toward him, as if in 
entreaty, and then with a long leap spring into the ocean. 
Bud saw him strike out with strong, confident strokes, 
while the boat, relieved of his weight, made a leap for- 
ward. Then there was a sudden darkening of the sky, 
as the flames swirled downward, followed by a long, 
reverberating shock and roar ; a glare that turned the 
heavens into fire. There was a hurrying back and forth 
along the shore ; the whirling of long ropes, lasso-like 5 



212 IF TAM O'SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

over the waters, and, after a while, a few charred, 
blackened shapes upon the beach. 

Bud opened the office door at half past two. 

" This is a nice time for you to show up," growled 
the city editor. "Where's Carleton? Did you get 
that copy?" 

Bud approached the table slowly, fumbling in his 
coat with trembling hands. 

"I've brought the copy," he said, his lips drawn 
and ashen. " It's a little wet 'cause 'twas in his pocket, 
an'" — the boy put his hand up to his throat and sobbed 
hoarsely — "you see, he — got drowned." 



♦TWILL BE ALL RIGHT. 

Sometimes I think the day ill spent ; 
An' backward look wi' discontent, 

Till candle light, 
When Jack comes whistlin' hame again 
An' says — though it be shine or rain — 

" 'Twill be all right." 

He canna always tell, I know, 

But when he makes sae braw a show 

I'm heartened, quite. 
An' then I think, come ills that may, 
I'll bear them while he's by to say : 

" 'Twill be all right." 

Brave is his heart an' strong his arm 
To keep me safe fra' ev'ry harm, 

An' sae, at night, 
I pray where e'er our feet may go 
Though rough our path, or smooth, we'll know 

'Twill be all right ! 
213 



CHIQUITA. 

& 

It seemed scarcely more than an oak leaf, russet- 
tinged and with edges crisply curled by the autumn air, 
when the sentry first saw it through the heavy mists still 
veiling the broad bosom of the river. Eut his practiced 
eye was not deceived, and even before he could catch 
the motion of the long pole that lightly cut the water on 
either side or saw the almost motionless figure erect and 
statuesque in the stern, he knew that a canoe, well laden 
and propelled by an Indian, was approaching. He 
walked down to the water's edge and waited. 

It was early dawn. The mountains that wall the 
east were hung with somber purple shadows, save where 
a point that jutted sharply up toward the sky was frosted 
with faintest amethyst and silver. But as he looked a 
glory wakened the lonely Silver Star and flooded the far 
heights of the Olympian hills ; the sun swam up through 
a sea of opalescent mists and beckoned the white wraiths 
from the valley and river. A line of light marked the 
gunstock and bayonet against the sentry's shoulder and, 

214 



CHIQUITA. 215 

strained through trees that sentinel the shore, flecks of 
sunshine dappled the waters. 

The soldier watched the canoe intently, and saw 
that it was making for the fort ; then, as the slender prow 
nosed the shore like a pointer, he ran down to see what 
the early visit might mean. 

The Umatilla sprang out and pointed to the boat, 
in which was stretched the senseless body of a man. 

" Me brought him from Shillapoo, 'cross the port- 
age, to white medicine man. Two times it was night 
and one time day. He is here ! " 

The Indian turned toward the unconscious passenger ; 
and just then sharp and clear sounded the reveille — 
driving the remaining mists away — and the soldiers 
poured out of the barracks like great, blue-coated bees. 
At a word from the sentry two of them ran to the scene 
and the wounded man was carried on an improvised 
stretcher up to the post, the dark figure of his rescuer 
stalking behind. 

The Indian, who belonged to a friendly tribe on a 
neighboring reservation, explained that while on a fish- 
ing trip he had seen this young Englishman in company 



2l6 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

with three Calif ornians of the most dangerous class. 
The stranger had been kind to him — and he remembered. 
Later, while hunting alone on the shores of Lake Shilla- 
poo he had come across the same man who had been 
robbed and left for dead beside the lonely waters. 
With the rude surgery of the forest he had bound his 
wounds, applying the bruised leaves of certain herbs and 
brewing remedies from the roots of others, and then, as 
his patient did not regain consciousness, had carried 
him bodily over the wild stretch of country between the 
lake and river, and returning again for the canoe, set 
out on the voyage for Vancouver barracks. 

Maj. Callander, the fort surgeon, added his skill to 
the work of the Indian and soon had the Englishman up 
and around again, and so contented that he enlisted as a 
private in Capt. Barber's company. 

And just here is where I must mention Chiquita. 
An Indian girl? Oh, no! Just the colonel's only 
daughter. 

If ever there lived a rank American he moved about 
in the uniform of the commanding officer of that regi- 
ment. He hated anything foreign, but the sight of an 



CHIQUITA. 217 

Englishman was like the smoke of powder to his nostrils. 
How he ever happened to call that black-eyed girl of his 
by a Spanish name we never could tell. But it fitted 
her to perfection; suited her to a T: "Chiquita la 
bonita!" 

There wasn't a man in the regiment who didn't adore 
the girl. Wild as the prairie breezes, and a typical 
soldier's daughter — as she should have been — for she 
was born in a tent during a skirmish with hostiles, and 
when the fight was over a spent arrow was found lying 
across her little arms. She never was afraid of any- 
thing ; and although she was educated, as most soldiers' 
daughters are, in an eastern convent and had all the 
learning and accomplishments of a fashionable young 
lady, she was always the same natural little thing that 
used to run out at sunset and clasp the flagstaff in her 
chubby arms and defy the soldiers to haul the colors down. 

Of course, the private soldiers didn't expect to be 
noticed by her. Although she wasn't above giving the 
humblest of them a nod and kindly smile. But that Eng- 
lishman didn't understand the caste lines in the American 
army. It seems he was a gentleman — as they're counted 



2l8 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

over there — and a good enough fellow any way, in spite 
of our prejudice. But I mean he was the younger son of 
a titled family, and seemed to think he could enter the 
service here and preserve the respect due his rank, just 
as it would be in the old country. But you and I know 
that doesn't go in this army. 

Along the first year of his enlistment he had a great 
streak of luck. A party of ladies from the post were 
salmon-fishing, and when the inevitable accident occurred, 
and Chiquita fell in the river, although a thousand men 
on the reservation were waiting and praying for just such 
an opportunity, no one but that confounded Englishman 
was on hand to save her ! 

You know what the Columbia is. If one goes down 
in its icy green waters there is never a hope of coming 
up again. And, of course, the old colonel was grateful. 
After that the private soldier would step up, as bold as 
you please, and speak to the young lady on parade, and 
join the group of young West Pointers always hanging 
around her, with apparently no remembrance of his 
strapless shoulders. It made us sick. And the colonel 
chewed the ends of his gray mustache and swore under 



CHIQUITA. 219 

his breath at the British impudence. But as for Chiquita 
herself — no one could tell what she thought! One 
thing alone bothered me. She wore a locket — a new 
one — on a fine chain of gold around her neck. And 
once she dropped it on the ground, and, as I picked it 
up, I saw the words : " Nil desperandum." 

Things went on quietly, with never a fight to relieve 
our minds, for a whole summer. Then came news from 
England that made the young soldier get leave of absence 
and return home. He had a stormy interview with the 
colonel before he left, in which that bluff old warhorse 
told him flatly no one but an American could claim 
Chiquita ; no, not if he had a thousand titles and owned 
half the snug little island. For it seems the boy was 
made an earl by the death of his brother. 

Chiquita' s eyes were red, but there was a glimmer 
of gold under the frills on the bosom of her white dress 
all that season, and I remembered the motto in the locket. 

A year went by, and then the regiment was trans- 
ferred. The colonel came east to rest for a while and 
to consult some specialists with their new fangled ways 
of locating the bullets in old wounds. And about the 
same time *&» light-haired Englishman sailed from Liver- 



220 IF TAM O'SHANTER 'D HAD A WHEEL. 

pool and calmly managed to meet the colonel and his 
daughter on Broadway. 

It was all up then. The colonel had to give in. 
But he cried at her wedding like a baby. 

A British flag was draped with our colors at the 
marriage, but when I went to kiss our little army girl 
goodbye I looked at her bonnie head under the diadem 
of a countess and then at the little hands, brown still 
with the tan of the plains. 

"Chiquita," I said, " never let them haul down our 
flag," and then, sir, I broke down and was as silly as an 
old soldier can be. 

She sailed in a few days, and they tell me she is 
very happy in her stately home. But the old regiment 
is lonely enough now, and at sunset, old campaigners 
that we are, our sight grows dim as we think of the 
colonel's little girl as she used to stand at sunset clasping 
the flagpole with her chubby arms. 

Ah, " Chiquita, la bonita ! " 



THE OLD HOUSE. 
J* 

Cold and cheerless, bare and bleak, 
The old house fronts the shabby street; 
And the dull windows eastward gaze, 
As their cobwebbed brows they raise, 
Just as tho' they looked to see 
What had become of you and me, 
And all the other children. 

The garden at the side, — you know, 
Where mother's flowers used to grow, — 
Has run as wild as we'd have grown 
If we had not her training known, 
The vines she bent still twine each tree ; 
As cling her prayers to you and me, 
And all her other children. 

Over the eaves, wrinkled and bare, 
The gray moss floats like tangled hair. 
If we had heard these echoes flung 
Down the long halls, when we were young. 
We'd never scurried off to bed — 
You and I — thro' the gloom o'erhead, 
With all the other children. 

221 



222 IF TAM O SHANTER D HAD A WHEEL. 

On our wide orbs the eyes of night 

Gazed softly, with mesmeric light ; 
When mother bent above our bed 
The silver moonlight touched her head, 
And in my dreams her face I'd see, 
Madonna-like, shine over me — 
Shine over all her children. 

The dust drifts o'er the garret floor, 
The little feet tread there no more ; 
But o'er the stage, still standing there, 
The Muse first stalked with tragic air, 
And whispered low to you and me, 
Of golden days that were to be 
For us, and all the children. 

Good-bye, old house ! Thy tattered cloak 
Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke 
Within thy walls we used to see 
A gaunt old wolf named Poverty; 
Yet from thy rafters' dingy bars 
A ladder stretched up to the stars — 
For us, and all the children. 



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